Every Form of Refuge Has Its Price
by Victoria Prince
Summary: Potter is killed! The Order's doomed. Snape decides to save himself by saving Voldemort from an Avada&ends up in charge of some survivors, including Miss Granger. He's now her master, not Professor. What will happen? SS/HG;AU;CL;rated M for mature content
1. Chapter 1

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**Disclaimer: **I am not J. K. Rowling and I own nothing except my imagination. JKR (and her affiliates) own everything "Harry Potter" and make all of the monies from it's various copyrighted ventures. I make nothing from this except more disclaimers. _she sadly sighs_

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**A/N: **This story is being written strictly for my own pleasure, freely given, in the hope that you will enjoy reading it just as much as I'm enjoying writing it.

Anything that you may recognize within the following story was "borrowed" from JKR with my most humble gratitude for it's loan. Thank you Ms. Rowling, wherever you are.

Anything that you do not recognize begins the fuzzy "grey area" that is the borderline into my very own Alternate Universe.

**Author's Warnings: ** AU; revolving POV format; non-canon compliant with HBP/DH; canon-character deaths; lemons in later chapters; rated "M" for obvious reasons, although the primary ones are Coarse Language, Violence, and Adult Content.

That being said, I hope that you enjoy your visit here in my world and your read through it.

the author

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Every Form of Refuge Has Its Price

**Prologue:**

The long, gaunt, white-haired, form of the old dying wizard lying on the massive antique rosewood bed shivered once more as the living warmth crept further out of him.

"Beloved?"

The single word querulously rasped from between his dry lips, seeking her out in his darkness.

"I'm here, my love," the elderly witch sitting vigil beside him anxiously replied. She leaned forward, and firmly grasped the trembling hand her long-life's partner had blindly thrust out.

A singularly beautiful smile curved the ancient wizard's thin lips, and he peacefully sighed. He fastened his milky, now unseeing, eyes where he sensed her gaze to be, and asked her, "Has it all been worth it, my pet? Do you have any regrets?"

The rich timbre of his baritone had grizzled with age, just like the rest of him, but his witch still never tired of hearing it.

She tenderly kissed the gnarled hand she held tightly, and rested his dry palm against her wrinkled cheek so that he could feel her smile.

Very softly, so softly that the elderly wizard had to strain his ears to hear her, she gently said, "No, my love. I have no regrets. You've made my life full, satisfying, and most of all, happy."

"Do you remember what you told me, all those years ago, on that night when I thought my world was over and I begged you to kill me?" the elderly witch continued.

She eased her frail old bones over onto the bed to curl up just one more time next to the wizard that this old crone still loved with all of her heart.

The old wizard sucked in a sharply pained, raspy breath at the uncomfortable shaking of the bed.

He'd have endured far worse to have her join him for what would most likely be the last time in this, their marriage bed. He closed his now sightless milky eyes and waited for her to speak again, just as he knew she would.

She snuggled more closely against him, and rested her head one more time against his chest.

His once strong virile heartbeat was now unevenly thumping under her ear as he struggled to remain with his witch, and to live just a little while longer for her.

No louder than any of her others, her next words reverberated with a shout of recognition deep within his brain, "Remember, my love? You told me, "Every form of refuge has its price, you foolish silly girl."

"You've been my refuge ever since that night. When was it? Nearly a hundred and twenty years ago now, I believe. So in answer to your other question, my husband, yes; it has all been worth it to me. Has it been worth it to you as well?"

Had it all been worth it to him?

Where to begin his search for the answer?

A million memories, some perfectly wonderful, some absolutely terrifyingly horrible, suddenly flooded through the old dying wizard's mind.

Too many images, all blurring together; so many atrocities; so much death.

Too little love and no forgiveness for his soul to be found anywhere.

No absolution for the many black sins staining his life except for the one bright and shining light gleaming in his long hard life.

Her.

She'd had to remind him of that night and that other man that he'd been so very long ago.

That 'Other Man' who'd been praying for some form of refuge that could somehow save him from drowning in the utter darkness that was himself.

His witch had dared to remind him of that terrible, bloody, deadly night over a century ago.

Of that horrific night when Fate had so neatly, so utterly, and quite so completely, delivered this wonderful witch's life into his most unworthy and undeserving hands.

The beginning was as good of a place to start his introspection as any, he reckoned; so that was the moment his still razor sharp brain pulled forward first.

He began to relive his lifelong memories as if through a Pensive.

His many memories of her.

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CHAPTER 1: WAR!

The turmoil of the deciding battle was raging terribly on all around Severus Snape.

He'd barely managed to get away from Nagini with his life still intact after allowing Potter to retrieve Dumbledore's final message. He thanked the gods that the boy had hung back just long enough for him to ingest his lifesaving potions before coming out of his hiding place.

Did the Dark Lord actually think that Severus Snape's skills with (and his knowledge of) potions and poisons were truly that sadly lacking?

Merlin's Balls! Even First year students knew what bezoars were used for! The dark Potions Master had absolutely meant it when he told his beginner's class each year that he could brew a potion to put a stopper in death.

It hadn't been an idle boast.

The dark Potions Master never went anywhere without both a bezoar and a tiny vial of the Elixir of Life hidden somewhere in the many pockets of his black robes.

It had simply been dumb luck that he'd also had a Blood Replenishing potion on him.

Severus still wondered why the Dark Lord had set his familiar, and his only known living Horcrux, out to kill him. Had the snaky old bastard finally discovered that he was a double agent?

It couldn't have all been about that bloody fucking wand! A simple "Expelliarmus" would have achieved the same purpose, if the wand's mastery were all that old Snakeface had wanted.

He had to get back out onto the battlefield. Now.

He had to make an appearance and attempt to help protect Lily's son, if it was at all still possible.

More importantly, which way was the tide of the battle turning now?

That was an answer Severus Snape needed immediately, if not sooner.

Severus paused for just a moment, and wiped a fresh streak of blood from his black eyes. No longer knowing or caring anymore if it was his own blood or someone else's, he fought his way across the battlefield as best as he could.

Death, the dead, and the dying (from both sides) littered the gory blood-slickened ground all around him. He'd almost been caught by a rogue 'Avada' as he'd frozen for a split-second when he'd had to step across the sprawled mutilated body of Narcissa Malfoy.

Order members didn't cast that kind of curse; it was as close to an Unforgivable as possible without being officially declared to be one.

She must have been caught in and killed by "friendly fire." Not for the first time, Severus deeply regretted ever inventing the 'Sectumsempra' curse.

The palely beautiful Narcissa had already grown blue and cold in her stillness. There were limits to the healing abilities of even the Potions Master.

He could work with "almost dead"; for "completely dead", the only cure remaining was a shovel.

"Oh Sweet Merlin, save me!" Severus groaned out as he tripped over little Colin Creevy's camera, and came face to face with the werewolf that had killed him. The cursed creature was growling his territorial lupine snarl between wickedly sharp teeth over Creevy's already mangled and half-eaten corpse.

"Sodding little bugger won't ever snap my fucking photograph again," Severus whispered under his breath as he slowly backed away from the his Boggart made horrific reality.

He personally cast the 'Avada' that snuffed out the werewolf gnawing on what little was left of Creevy.

Severus swiped at his eyes again, but it wasn't blood blurring his vision this time. It was hot, angry, bitter tears for all this senseless, useless loss; this terrible waste of human potential littering the smoking gore-slimed ground all around him.

There was no better word to describe the smell of the battlefield than 'hellish'.

Severus choked on his own bile, and forced himself to swallow it back down.

He was still sick from the lingering after-effects of Nagini's poison, and now from the variety of odors assailing him via the smoke-filled air. Thick drifts of a nauseating mixture of excrement, both human and animal; the thick coppery aroma of spilt and drying blood; and that rotten-egg smell of the sulfurous dark curses flying through the air all around him.

Still Severus fought on, whipping and slashing curses, counter-curses, and hexes as fast and as accurately deadly as lightning bolts with his ebony, Dragon's Heartstring-centered, wand.

The Potions Master was struggling with all of his considerable might to simply survive this awful bloody night of endless horror.

Then he saw Potter fall. _Oh sweet gods, NO!_

Severus Snape suddenly **knew.** Dumbledore had already discussed it with him, but Severus had clung to the forlorn hope that he'd be able somehow to still save Lily's son.

The lad had the power; of that fact there was no doubt in his mind. What Potter had lacked had been the proper training and a lifetime of experience.

It was all over now, even though the Battle still raged on around them.

They had lost.

Severus made his choice. He chose life.

He slid his silver Death Eater's mask back down into place over his face, and fought his way over closer to Voldemort's side. He personally managed to deflect an 'Avada' that had been aimed at the Dark Lord's back.

It had caught Voldemort completely by surprise! It was fired off at him by none other than Draco Malfoy, the only son of one of his most powerful (and formerly most trusted) Death Eaters.

Severus' frantically cast "Protego!" had rebound the curse on young Malfoy. Now his godson lay dead by his own curse.

Severus' defense of him instantly restored Voldemort's confidence, and his trust, in the obviously wrongfully accused Potions Master.

Severus Snape couldn't possibly be a blood traitor; not if he'd just saved his Master's life.

It also meant that the Dark Lord now owed Severus Snape a Life Debt; and just exactly how **had** his Potions Master managed to survive Nagini's poisonous attack?

Perhaps the snarky Potions Master was worthy of keeping in his Inner Circle, after all.

With so many of his elite now dead and dying all around him, Voldemort really couldn't afford to throw away such a brilliant, loyal, obviously powerful, dark wizard as Severus Snape.

The Potions Master definitely deserved a worthy reward as his prize, that is if he was still alive at the conclusion of this battle.

Voldemort suddenly decided to personally see to that just as soon as he had things neatly wrapped up here at Hogwarts.

The Dark Lord rather nonchalantly fired off another swift _'Avada Kadavra' _at yet another of those damned infernal red-haired Weasley's.

He'd already slain two of them. Voldemort thought he'd proved his point when yet another of them would suddenly pop up from another quarter, just like a damned weasel from a hole.

Sodding Weasley's certainly were a most prolific and fertile brood of Purebloods; even if they were all Blood traitors almost down to the very last Weasel.

END OF CHAPTER 1

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**A/A/N: **I would like to dedicate this story to the following three people:

Firstly, to J. K. Rowling; for gifting the world with the creation of her "Harry Potter and" series:

Thank you JK, wherever you are right now, for your immense generosity in allowing all of we fanfiction authors to so freely use your world and characters as a springboard for our own imaginations.

Without your beginning, many of us would never have attempted to write a single word.

I am one of them; my most humble thanks for a loan that I will never be able to repay.

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Secondly, to Alan Rickman; graphic artist, actor, director, author, lyricist, and teacher of the dramatic arts:

With a single expression or simple inflection of his voice, he manages to magically transform ink-and-paper characters into three-dimensional, real, human beings.

Not satisfied to simply rest on his well-deserved laurels, he is also a true philanthropist; generously giving of his energy and time to help the oppressed.

I stand in awe of his talent and greatly admire his giving heart.

Sir, you have inspired me. Thank you.

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Third, and finally, I'd like to dedicate this story to a dear Friend who has finally agreed to beta for me:

She diligently works "behind the scenes" making me think and re-think; the improvement to my work speaks louder than I can as to her invaluable services.

She is also teaching me to be proud of myself, and to take pride in my work; lessons that she wasn't even aware that she'd been teaching me. Both are lessons that I desperately need to learn.

In all of this, she absolutely wishes to be left as "anonymus", and will accept NO credit for everything that she does for me. How many others would want their name loudly praised for all of the time and energy that they've invested in a project?

Thank you my Friend. As I've said before, "You are a treasure, my dear; an absolute treasure."

Most sincerely,

Victoria Prince, Author.

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	2. Chapter 2

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**Disclaimer: **I am not J.K. Rowling. She owns it all and makes all the monies from it.

Anything that you may recognize within this story is most generously "on loan"; anything that varies from her original concept is all mine. It's free; so deal with it. _snickers_

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CHAPTER 2: THE END OF THE WORLD AS WE KNOW IT

Hermione had fought her way ever closer to Ginny, with Luna moving back-to-back with her and following her every movement, each defending the other. Quite literally, they were all watching each other's backs.

"GET AWAY FROM MY DAUGHTER, BITCH!" Molly Weasley screeched at Bellatrix Lestrange, bustling forwards to protect her only daughter just like a rampaging mother lioness defending her only cub.

Molly Weasley fired off several nasty curses and hexes, furiously dueling against the insane dark witch with a power that they'd never imagined she had in her.

It allowed the three younger witches watching her dueling with Bellatrix Lestrange to finally understand just what a powerful and important member of the Order that the Weasley matriarch had been all along.

Molly had always been far more than merely the chief cook and den mother of the Order of the Phoenix; she'd also been a valiant and powerful warrior in her own right.

Dolohov suddenly materialized near them in a swirl of Dark Apparation, and the three younger witches formed a defensive triad to better stand against him.

He was a bit amazed himself that he'd actually done it; he'd been desperate to break free from Flitwick's binding hex, and in his desperation he'd attempted Disapparation.

Miraculously it had **worked!**

With the Dark Lord's final breaching of Hogwarts' walls, the ancient binding magic that for ten centuries had prevented Apparition within Hogwarts grounds had at last been broken.

Bellatrix used Dolohov's arrival as a distraction to purchase herself enough time to Apparate away from the avenging angel that was Molly Weasley.

Bella didn't care where she ended up, just as long as the elder Weasley bitch wasn't still pointing a wand her way when she landed!

Hermione had shuddered involuntarily as memories of what Dolohov had done to her raced back to the forefront of her mind.

No one had even seen it coming; that hideous bolt of green phosphorescence that Anton Dolohov's wand suddenly jetted at Molly when the evil bastard had turned her way.

With Bella's Disapparation, he'd whirled around with his wand aimed over the top of his head in a graceful movement that reminded Hermione of a matador's dance.

Ginny's mouth formed a soundless "O" and her pale honey-brown eyes suddenly widened, black pupils dilating, in her shock.

Her face whitened to the color of chalk, the normally pale-marmalade of her freckles standing out in stark dark contrast to her complexion.

Her mother instantly stiffened and fell back; Ginny's horrified mind's eye seeing it happen as if in slow motion.

It took an eternity for Molly Weasley's body to finally hit the smoking ground. All the while there was no sound anywhere in the universe for Ginny.

Nothing else existed for the traumatized sixteen year old in that long moment but a forever kind of silence and the endless eternity of her mother's slowly falling . . . falling . . . falling.

Ron screamed, "MUM!" from a short run away.

His mother had barely touched the trampled grass when he'd gotten there to scoop her limp form up against his grieving, heaving, chest.

Dolohov threw back his head and roared with victorious vicious laughter.

Ron softly kissed his mother's rapidly chilling forehead, and eased her dead body ever so gently back to the ground.

Through his hot bitter tears, angry dark-red flames suddenly danced into life within the blue of Ron's irises.

Darkness, fueled by a deep primal rage, took hold of him.

When the very first 'Avada Kedavra' that Ronald Weasley had ever fired at another living thing in his life sliced close enough past Dolohov's head that his straggly oily hair stood on end, he suddenly stopped laughing.

The evil dark wizard instantly Disapparated in a swirling black mist that quickly flowed out into the Forbidden Forest.

Ron Disapparated right behind him, effortlessly following him, as Darkness called to Darkness.

They paused here and there to fire off bolt after bolt of curses and counter-curses at each other in brief, but intense, duels.

Ron blessed Hermione silently in his mind for all of her relentless prodding and pushing him to learn these very spells. If he survived this battle, he was going to finally screw himself up and ask her to marry him.

He'd never really loved Lavender; she'd just been an easy shag.

It had been nothing when compared to the depth of his feelings for Hermione Granger. How had he not realized it before today?

Dolohov had nearly 'Avada'd him while his mind had been lollygagging in the clover with his daydreams of Hermione.

Ronald Weasley couldn't afford to make that mistake again; to do so would mean his death.

He spun away in a cloud of Disapparation, only to re-Apparate back exactly where he'd been standing only the moment before.

Dolohov's guard was only down for that single split-second, wrongly aiming his wand where he'd anticipated Ron's reappearance to be.

That was all the tall young red-head needed, a single chance.

A quick 'Avada', and the savage mad dog that had once been Anton Dolohov would never hurt or kill another soul.

His mother had been avenged!

Ron's stomach did an immediate heave-ho, and he shook with the violence of his retching up what felt like leftovers from three days ago.

He hadn't realized that casting the Unforgivable would wrench his soul like this!

He weakly leaned against one of the ancient oaks of the forest like a cool, damp, old friend.

Ron pulled out the obligatory handkerchief from his pocket and wiped the clammy sweat from his face, and puke-stain from his lips, with shaking hands.

His mother had insisted that each of her sons carry a clean handkerchief in their pocket at all times. She'd said that a true gentleman should always have one, for those just-in-case moments.

It had been one of Molly Weasley's cardinal rules ever since he'd come out of his nappies; right along with the 'clean underpants' rule of mothers everywhere.

Mother always knew best.

The returning anger that came with the fresh memory of her death instantly settled his stomach right down.

Ronald Weasley pushed himself off the tree's strong support and straightened up to his erect grown-man's height.

His spine stiffened once more with righteous indignation, and he crossed the path over to where Dolohov's unmoving body lay.

At least he wasn't lost. This path was damned familiar.

He reached down and flipped the corpse over. Even frozen in death, the murderous gloat was still deeply etched into the older wizard's wicked face.

Ron stepped astride the body, slowly unzipped the Muggle jeans that had been a birthday gift from Harry, pulled out his dick and very deliberately pissed in the dead man's face.

As he did so he snarled, "And this is for torturing and slicing up my future wife, Hermione Granger."

A dark, grim, smile curved the young wizard's lips as he tucked himself back into place and zipped up.

Ron returned to the path, not even glancing back at the body.

Many things were hungry in the Forbidden Forest.

That's all that Anton Dolohov was good for anyway; becoming animal shit.

Ron kept glancing around, looking for the point where he'd first entered the forest.

The little hairs on the back of Ron's neck suddenly all stood on end.

An overwhelming feeling of imminent danger flooded the young wizard's psyche; his mouth went dry with fear, and his heart began racing triple time.

This danger was different than the feeling of an enemy's wand being leveled at you from behind.

This was an even deeper, primordial, 'fight or flight' kind of danger-sense flooding all around and through him now.

Ron's brain went into survival mode, pushing aside every other rational thought except for the single instinct that had leapt to the forefront of it, RUN NOW!

Ron immediately picked up his pace, disregarding the small branches and thorny overgrowth snagging at his jumper and hair.

He heedlessly accepted the deep scratches they gave his face and hands as by far the lesser of two evils.

Where was the bloody fucking edge of the sodding wood any way? This damned path looked so bloody **familiar!**

As he ducked under a centuries dead, bent-over, tree trunk, the sickle suddenly fell for Ronald Weasley.

He clearly remembered just which path he was on right now and exactly when the last time was that he'd been on it.

He'd been a Second Year; he and Harry had "followed the spiders" down this same path on Hagrid's instructions when they'd been searching for clues about the Chamber of Secrets.

That had been five years ago.

Just how big **had** the sons and daughters of Aragog grown during all of those years?

Ron found out only a split-second later.

Silent and deadly, his own personal Boggart suddenly became an horrific reality as one of them dropped down from high in the tree canopy above him to instantly inject him with its deadly poison.

It was just as large as his father's old flying car and it's fangs were almost as thick around as a man's arm.

One fang completely pierced Ron's heart with its first bite.

In that single, far too late, split-second, he'd barely had enough time to think of that one word spell, "Riddikulus."

It wouldn't have helped anyway. This wasn't a Boggart; he was dead instantly.

Perhaps the youngest of the Weasley sons **had** learnt something of the noble art of divination during all of Professor Trelawney's useless boring classes on the subject.

Perhaps Ron had actually had some kind of precognitive ability. The one thing that he'd always feared above all others had finally been the agent of his demise.

Ronald Weasley was now dead at eighteen.

He'd not fallen as an honorable victim to the Killing Curse, executed by some anonymous Death Eater, during the heat of battle.

No.

Ronald Weasley died from a single spider bite.

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Back at the castle, a deathly pall slowly descended over the carnage of the ravaged battlefield.

Here and there through the drifts of smoke rising up all across the blood slickened, body littered, curse-cratered ground, moans rose up of those still desperately clinging to whatever little remained of their lives.

From every quarter the unearthly wheezes of death rattles emanating from the throat of yet another body, as the soul fled its pain, could clearly be heard.

The heart-wrenching sounds came equally from fallen black-robed Death Eaters and the struggling defenders alike.

At this point, the battle could go either way.

Sweet Merlin, please give Harry the strength that he needed!

A ripple of great power draining away from them, like a vast tide going out, had shimmered across the battlefield only moments earlier.

Every wizard and witch battling for the side of Light had simultaneously felt the loss of its presence, but very few realized just what it had truly meant.

Only those fighting closest to Harry's position at the time had seen him fall to Voldemort that last time on the secondary battlefield that had begun right there inside of Hogwarts itself.

Harry had fought hard and bravely, just like the valiant Gryffindor he truly was, dueling Voldemort to the death.

The Dark Lord had just been quicker and more powerful than the improperly prepared teenager had.

Harry Potter had just become the martyr for the Cause that Dumbledore had always planned for him to be.

The Boy Who Lived had finally died.

The loss of their sole hope of victory tasted as bitter as gall in the mouths of the defeated.

Not even one of them had ever considered the possibility of defeat; or exactly what that would mean to each of them if they managed to survive.

They were now left behind to somehow live within Voldemort's concept of a new Wizarding World Order.

Here they stood on the precipice; perched on the very brink of the abyss. What would happen to them all now?

Dear gods! Far better for them had they all died swiftly, in the heat of battle, as the great silent swathes of their fallen comrades had honorably done.

The living were angrily jealous of the dead in that moment.

What mercy could they expect from a madman?

How quickly would Voldemort allow them to beg for death? Certainly not before they'd all endured extended and prolonged tortures of every kind.

Slavery, rape, and buggery were a given, **if** they were allowed to live at all.

A few intrepid members of the Army of the Light tried to break away, to save themselves and live to fight again; far too few of them actually achieved it.

The remaining rogues, swiftly and without mercy, instantly became examples of how Death Eater's dealt out retributions against their enemies.

All across the battlefield, the conquered survivors slowly began to kneel, place their wands on the ground before them, and submissively lower their heads in shamed defeat. The first one knelt down here, two over there, and then maybe six or seven further out.

Within fifteen minutes time, the overpowered had all unconditionally surrendered to the Dark Lord.

Thus ended the Great Battle of Hogwarts.

It had ended with a whimper and not a bang.

Voldemort sent his youngest, most inexperienced, Death Eaters out to collect the wands of the defeated in the flush of his victory.

To the older survivors that was merely Voldemort's not-so-subtle way of showing his contempt for them, while at the same time quite physically reminding them of their new position in life.

To the younger of the defeated, their fear of the very real probability of rape, and worse, leapt immediately forwards from their terrified imaginings into the realm of definitely now about to commence.

They were already beginning to be divided and herded around like cattle in the stockyard pens prior to being branded or butchered.

Voldemort ordered all of the defeated to be sorted first by Blood, and then according to their sex.

Strictest orders were given to the still adrenalin-pumped up young Death Eaters to leave all captives unmolested, at least until their Lord had taken his census and had rendered all of his judgments and dispensations against them.

The Dark Lord had been most specific; if his new recruits couldn't keep their cocks in their pants by their own volition, then he, personally, would curse it off them and stuff it down their throats until they'd literally choked to death on their own sex.

All of the galleons in Gringott's vaults couldn't have tempted even one of them to lay as much as a sole lascivious finger on a single survivor.

But then again . . .

The Master hadn't specified whether or not to heal any of the survivors' wounds. He certainly hadn't given them any orders to administer pain potions or to give any food and water to the injured.

Let the bastards suffer until the Dark Lord finally rendered his judgments and rewards.

It was no less than what all of the damned 'blood traitors' deserved anyway.

END OF CHAPTER 2

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A/N: Have you ever heard the term, "an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth"?

JKR murdered the man I love with a snakebite; I murdered hers with a spiderbite.

Now we're even. _snickers_

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	3. Chapter 3

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**Disclaimer: **No, I'm still not JKR. (I own nothing except my weird thoughts and this story's twisty plot.)

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CHAPTER 3: FATE STEPS IN

Justin Finch-Fletchley sat wounded, bloodied, and slumped forward in exhaustion. He clutched Hannah Abbott's rapidly cooling corpse tightly against his broad strong chest, tenderly rocking the body as he silently shook with barely contained sobs.

The darkly handsome injured wizard wept not only for the loss of his fiancée. He also wept for the loss of everything that the Wizarding World had so amazingly offered to an already privileged young Muggleborn aristocrat.

He'd been going for a Healer's apprenticeship next year. Hannah was to train as a medi-witch.

They'd been planning to open a Healer's office together upon completion of their studies in Haversack, the magical village her family came from.

Though shielded from Muggle view, Haversack was very near his family estates in Devonshire. Residing and working there, their children could have grown up knowing and being loved by both sets of grandparents, Muggle and magical alike.

From a short distance away, a sulfurous hot breeze blew aside a waft of putrid green smoke and Bellatrix Lestrange caught a glimpse of the tableau of love's tragedy playing out.

The pair was only a short distance from where she'd blindly Apparated to escape Molly Weasley's ire and wand.

Her wandering interest was instantly caught, held, and intently focused on the young couple she did not know. The wounded dark male was tenderly cradling the dead fair-haired female, and was openly weeping, grieving for her.

He tenderly kissed the cold lips of the too-still female, and then ever so gently eased her body down onto the ground.

Something briefly flickered alive deep within Bella. She felt it, but instantly brushed aside whatever it might have been as unimportant.

Bellatrix Lestrange strode forward, insanely ignoring the curses that whizzed around her. Her twisted willow wand preceded her as she assumed full-dueling posture to fire her hex at the wounded, grime-covered, young man.

The dark-haired wizard knelt beside his fiancee in calm resignation, welcoming death.

Thanking her for cursing him. Thanking her, thinking that she'd kill him!

"Petrificus Totalus!" Bella suddenly screeched as she fired off her curse. He instantly froze, then teetered and fell over, board-stiff.

Now just why had she done that, and hadn't simply 'Avada'd him straightway? After all, he was one of the enemy.

Not any more he wasn't, not now. She licked her full red lips with greedy anticipation.

Now "They" were finally victorious.

The Dark Lord would certainly be awarding slaves and pets from among the survivors; at least those who were smart enough to accept the inevitable, and surrender, instead of choosing death.

Bella wanted to make certain that this particular male was smart enough. She wanted this handsome dark one for herself.

He had interested her.

It had been so very, very long since Bella had been interested in anything, or anyone, except serving her Lord.

The seriously mental dark witch's garnet lips curled up in an evil, satisfied, smile.

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Justin had seen Bellatrix Lestrange advancing on him across the battlefield as he was laying his dead love down. He had actually smiled wide at the vicious, darkly mad witch's approach.

"Thank you, my Lady," were the last words he whispered, with a blissfully peaceful smile on his aristocratic face, just before Bellatrix fired off her curse at him.

Justin welcomed death. He'd be with Hannah again, peacefully at rest, and not have to live in Voldemort's new world.

When the Muggleborn Hufflepuff hit the ground, he realized to his horror that he was still very much alive. His brain simply refused to process any more information, so it shut down.

Justin Finch-Fletchley fell gratefully unconscious.

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When Molly Weasley had fallen, Ron had gotten there almost in time to catch his mother's body. As he'd fired off that Unforgivable at Dolohov, the evil dark wizard had fled the scene like the coward he truly was.

Ronald Weasley had immediately taken off after the elite Death Eater with murder in his blue eyes.

The threat that Bellatrix had presented was no longer a problem, as she'd ran even before Dolohov had. Merlin only knew where the evilly dotty witch was, but it wasn't here, and for that small mercy Luna, Ginny and Hermione, three exhausted young witches, were duly grateful.

Ginny went down, landing on a large sharp stone, with a 'thump' that gashed both of her knees open down to the bare white bone. Closing her eyes, she threw back her head and howled out a primal scream of pure anguish at the forever loss of her mother.

It was an unholy keening of ultimate despair that erupted from the youngest of the triad of females, reverberating off the stone walls of what had once been Hogwarts.

The sound was eerily reminiscent of a banshee's wail, and it chilled the blood of all that heard it.

Her scream only drew more unwanted attention to the waves of uncontrolled, and currently uncontrollable, wild primal magic that undulated from the grieving young red-haired witch.

It even caused Lord Voldemort to turn his head and stare their way.

_'Another damned Weasley!' _the Dark Lord thought to his disgust, as he picked his way through the bodies piled up around him.

The Dark Lord still coveted power, even in the midst of basking in his triumph. He turned and began to approach this raw new source of unbridled magic that reverberated in shimmering waves from the redhead.

Severus saw that Snakeface's attention had been caught by three of his female former students; three that he personally **knew.**

He quickly fell into step slightly behind Voldemort, being careful to always walk where his Master could see him, even as he mentally cringed in the knowledge of what the schoolgirls' fates would surely be.

_'Sweet Merlin, bless you! She's still alive! Now let's see if I can keep her that way,' _Severus thought desperately, as he warded off another stray hex aimed at the Dark Lord's back.

The Professor ducked and parried another aimed at himself, and hurried to keep pace with his Master.

Voldemort switched over to 'Levicorpus Locomotus', and no longer had to contend with an obstacle course of mangled corpses as he flew toward the trio of young witches.

Unfortunately, Severus did have to contend with littered ground as his weakened state barely left him enough strength for self-defense, but not the added magical reserves to call on for the luxury of flight.

He still moved like a man possessed, leaping over the body of a fallen Order member, only to have his black dragons-hide boots slide in the smoldering pile of entrails oozing from a dead Death Eater that he'd landed in.

That slip had nearly taken the Potions Master down, but he miraculously managed to keep his footing.

He kept on moving forward, all while doing his damnedest to avoid pissing Voldemort off any further. That would only serve to bring certain doom and destruction swiftly down upon them all.

Severus schooled his face into his most misanthropic mask and began to re-shuffle his thought processes.

That the Dark Lord would check his emotional state and rape his thoughts over this matter was a given, but it couldn't be helped.

_'Merlin, give me the strength to keep him from going too deep,' _was the only thought that flew through his mind.

He could do this.

Voldemort obviously didn't have a clue that he'd ever been disloyal. If he could only save one of the three girls, then Severus selfishly wanted it be **her.**

He had already made up his mind earlier to save as many as he possibly could, and still preserve his 'cover'. Severus Snape was, after all, a true Slytherin; secrecy and self-preservation were high on his list of priorities.

Until the Potions Master could see which way the wind of change was now blowing, Severus would carefully bide his time and continue to play the consummate Death Eater before the Dark Lord.

Nothing less would save **him; **and to be in a position to save anyone else, Severus Snape bowed to the grim reality that first he had to save himself.

A painful stitch caught in his side causing him to sharply gasp, but still Severus pressed on. Only a few seconds could have possibly passed, but it seemed to the Professor that it took him an absolute eternity to catch back up to Voldemort's side.

The Dark Lord had just reached the three girls and now stood towering over them.

The odd-looking fey girl formally saluted him with her wand, knelt before him beside the kneeling, now silent, Weasley chit, and carefully placed her wand on the ground at his feet.

She let her nonjudgmental gaze roam across the Dark Lord's reptilian visage with open curiosity, but not the usual revulsion of other witches.

That was just Luna's normal way.

She could even find the beauty in Thestrals; besides, she'd seen something that no one else had even noticed when Neville had killed Nagini with Godric Gryffindor's sword.

Luna had seen a tiny, softly glowing, silver-blue mist slowly drift up from the serpent's severed throat and gently whisper back into Voldemort's mouth and nostril slits while his attention had been elsewhere.

Voldemort's eyebrows would have shot into his hairline, if he'd had either, in his surprise at the pretty young witch's reaction.

A slight blush, of all things, tinged the Dark Lord's cheeks at her slow open perusal of his features but mysteriously he somehow allowed it.

When she'd seen whatever it was that she'd been looking for, Luna confidently met Voldemort's eyes and softly smiled at him.

'_Dear gods! Just how long __**has**__ it been since any woman has looked at me like __**this?**__ Open . . . honest . . . like I don't repulse her? Not madly like that crazy cow Bella! But still, calm, quiet; like the idea of my very touch doesn't make her cringe away in horror?' _he thought in a moment of shocked disbelief.

Perhaps there was still a bit of humanity left within the man who'd once been the devilishly handsome Tom Riddle after all. To his amazement, Voldemort suddenly realized that this young girl had soothed a faint masculine vanity he'd long forgotten that he'd ever had.

The Dark Lord honestly had a human frisson of pride slide down his spine from her gaze. He felt like a handsome man again within this pale young witch's eyes.

Voldemort bent and took her wand, and then stepping closer to the fair girl, he lifted the tip of her pointed chin with a single finger. "What's your name, child?" he purred at her, then was instantly uneasy at the amount of pleased desire he'd unconsciously felt at her look.

"Luna Lovegood, my Lord," she softly whispered, meeting his stare with an openly admiring one of her own.

The Dark Lord carefully nodded, and filed her name away in a **special** place in his mind. This one he'd take for his own.

Her pedigree made her worthy of his notice; she was a Pureblood, after all.

Voldemort didn't believe in all of the "love clap-trap" that Dumbledore had always espoused but he'd need a Consort, a Dark Lady.

Love wouldn't be required between them, just procreative sex. Sex wasn't love, and the Dark Lord truly enjoyed sex; an abundance of sex.

His gaze shifted to the now silent and unmoving young redhead. The Master recognized the Weasley chit for just what she was, a fertile, desirable, most fuckable, although now quite probably squirrelly, Pureblood female.

Ginny Weasley had completely shut down now, pulling herself deeply into herself, since he'd approached them. Even Lord Voldemort's awesome powers of Legilimency couldn't reach into her mind from wherever it had retreated to in its savage pain.

It didn't matter, even unhinged she'd make a fine healthy broodmare for some lucky Death Eater; one who would never question things should his attentions ever wander elsewhere.

It was the third young witch that Voldemort now focused all of his gloating red-eyed scrutiny on.

He instantly recognized her from viewing young Harry's deepest, most forbidden, secret thoughts, and his darkest _**desires.**_

He'd bet Malfoy's last sickle that the silly Mudblood bitch hadn't even the slightest clue.

The Dark Lord smiled grimly down into her still defiant face. He'd seen the brief exchange of glances between his Potions Master and the upstart chit; she'd turned her nose up at his loyal servant.

He'd be more than happy to enlighten her about just how life stood for her now.

"Miss Hermione Granger," he began with a mocking bow. "I know who **you** are from watching young Potter's wet dreams."

Voldemort let his red eyes slowly rake over her as he appraised her face and body, then he sadly shook his head as if he'd found her somehow lacking in the required feminine attributes.

His lips pursed in a moue of distaste as he 'tsked', then continued, "You truly didn't know that young Harry was deeply in love with you and that he desired you as his lover; that he'd even wanted to marry you? You never saw him stepping aside, again and again, for his friend, the youngest Weasley lad? My, my, my. How . . . interesting."

A grim smile slowly stretched the Dark Lord's lips wide at her shocked, open-mouthed, expression, just before her brave Gryffindor foolhardiness kicked in.

Hermione spit at Voldemort's face but missed. She still managed to hit his robes, though.

_**"Crucio!"**_ the Dark Lord screamed, pointing an infuriated wavering finger at the defiant girl.

Hermione tried desperately to hold back the scream that tore her throat raw on its exit and attempted to stay on her feet.

One dose of the Cruciatus Curse as administered by the Dark Lord, however, had brought her humbly down on her knees within the first thirty seconds.

Hermione began drily retching as the Dark Lord suddenly released her, and the agony finally receded, only to begin convulsing on the ground with the painful after-effects.

The inner thighs of her low-slung jeans were soaked with her piss. She hadn't been able to control her bladder while enduring such unbelievable pain.

That curse was aptly named for a reason; it was excruciating in the truest sense of the word, both mentally and physically.

Severus stepped the three steps closer to the heaving girl and snatched her wand away. He'd have snatched her to his chest and healed her, if he could have.

Voldemort gave him such a **look,** that for a long moment the Potions Master was certain that he'd blown both his cover and the whole damned situation.

_'How to cover the faux pas?' _Severus schooled his features into a savagely gloating sneer and drawled, "Not such a know-it-all **now, **are you Mudblood?"

Hermione cut blazing amber eyes up toward her former teacher and glared her defiance at him.

_'Gods! Didn't the chit realize that her certain death stood only a few feet from her? Submit, you foolish silly little girl! You brilliant, brave, foolhardy witch.' _

Severus hadn't as much as twitched a single facial muscle at the girl's openly displayed hostility.

Instead, he arched a single inky eyebrow up at her, and grimly smiled. Thank the gods this was the moment he felt Voldemort's heavy-handed entry into his mind.

At that very moment, in his mind, the spirited young lioness before him was dressed in her little schoolgirl's uniform, knickerless, and bent akimbo over his Headmaster's office desk.

In Severus' very visceral fantasy, the "naughty little schoolgirl" was being most thoroughly "punished" by her teacher's large "rod" of correction.

Voldemort slyly grinned, and withdrew from Severus' mind.

He'd just decided on the Potions Master's reward.

END OF CHAPTER 3

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A/N: Poor Justin. Poor Severus. Poor girls. What does fate have in store for them all?

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	4. Chapter 4

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**Disclaimer: **sigh! If you recognize anything in this tale, it belongs to JKR and all of her many affiliates and copyrights. Otherwise, it's rightfully mine and I'll take the blame for it.

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CHAPTER 4: EVE OF DESTRUCTION

The Dark Lord prepared to give his orders for the confinement and care of the prisoners.

Severus, knowing that his Lord had already chosen, dared to finally speak, "Master, have you considered taking first choice for yourself?"

Voldemort twisted his head to face his kneeling servant, Severus Snape. "How is that any of **your** concern, Severus? Do you now presume to know my mind?" Voldemort darkly warned him.

"N-nn-no, my Lord," he forced himself to subserviently whimper, as if he were afraid that he'd spoken out of turn.

Voldemort hissed a sigh, cast a quick wandless silencing charm around the two of them, and motioned for the dark wizard kneeling before him to rise and speak freely.

"My Lord, I simply wanted to assure you of a pristine pet. The pale girl, Miss Lovegood, was a rather brilliant student of mine; I feel certain that she is still a virgin. I also believe that your victory and their use of dark powers still powerfully stir all of your servants' blood. They won't hesitate to begin a victory revel, and virginity will stand little chance against them. Milord, there is a certain **power** in virgin's blood for a wizard as a Potions ingredient and a certain power, as a man, in being your witch's first lover."

Severus' speech had poured out of his frantic lips in an anxious, barely thought-out, rush; he suddenly feared that he'd said too much.

Thankfully he'd had years of observing Wormtail's successful obsequious behavior to learn the proper degree of cringe to satisfy his Master..

Severus went silent, acted humble, and allowed the Dark Lord the necessary time to absorb his words.

Voldemort slowly nodded his head, as he began to agree with the idea. It made good sense, but how to both test his pumped-up younger Death Eaters and humiliate his prisoners? He released the silencing spell around the two of them.

The Dark Lord drew all of his dark charisma around him, and then issued his first ever mass-protection order to his obedient Death Eater troops; much to their collective confusion, and to the astonished amazement of one Severus Snape.

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When Neville Longbottom had drawn Godric Gryffindor's sword from the Sorting Hat and slain that bitch, Nagini, something approaching gratitude and grudging admiration sprang forth in Severus Snape's heart for the clumsy lad.

He used the excellent opportunity of Harry's death to drop to his knees and grovel before his Master.

Longbottom might be a dullard and inept in most of his studies, however even his former Potions Master couldn't deny the simple fact that Neville Longbottom was extraordinarily gifted in Herbology.

It was a proven fact, as his school records would verify.

Severus could work with that. Everyone had heard Voldemort repeatedly saying that he valued magical abilities, and the lad **was **a Pureblood after all.

"My Lord . . . Master," said Severus, kneeling with bowed head and feigned humility dripping from his voice.

Even though he could feel waves of annoyance radiating from the Dark Lord at this interruption, Severus hoped to salvage yet another of Albus' precious Gryffindors from a certain death.

"Yes, loyal servant?" Voldemort irritatedly replied. His very posture said louder than any words that this interruption had best be important. He'd already killed the man kneeling before him once tonight; he'd not hesitate to do so again, if it should prove necessary.

Severus raised honest eyes to meet his Lord's, and said, "If I may my Lord?" With Voldemort's brusque nod, he continued, "Young Longbottom might not be the brightest star in the sky, milord, but he is extremely gifted in Herbology. You have said that it was not to your best interest to destroy magical blood and gifts."

He took a much needed breath then rushed on, as he realized that the Dark Lord was actually listening, "I had rather thought to expect great things from this boy in that area. You are aware of how I treasure the most potent and freshest ingredients for my potions."

Amazingly, Voldemort slightly nodded his slick head in agreement with his Potions Master.

Severus took the chance to push the envelope further by adding, "With the right kind of conditioning, young Longbottom could become a valued member of the new Wizarding society; perhaps even become a loyal Death Eater, in due time."

With an unseen hand gesture, wandlessly and silently, Snape cast an ancient spell on Neville.

It was similar to the Imperius Curse but, unlike that Unforgivable, one's willpower could overpower and break the spell if the command given one went too far against their free will.

Severus clearly felt it when the will to fight suddenly fled the boy.

Neville instantly fell on his knees, his staring eyes never leaving the bloody grass on which he knelt, as he bent forwards and silently laid his wand at Voldemort's feet.

Voldemort was doubly-pleased.

First, there was young Longbottom, a Pureblood no less, gifted in a specific area that would greatly benefit his Potions stores. Secondly, his trusted Potions Master was obviously still completely loyal to him, even considering that nasty little "murder" incident that had occurred between them.

He **did** need to show that he could be a merciful Lord, when mercy was begged for with humility and sincerity. It simply made for good PR, as Malfoy would have advised.

Voldemort allowed what he thought to be a gentle smile curve his lips; to all of those who observed it, it more closely resembled a corpse's rigoring 'death-grin'.

"Your life is spared, young Longbottom. Never forget that you have both me and your Headmaster to thank for that fact," Voldemort imperiously granted, with an elegant inclination of his head.

The wording and theatrical gestures were made just as if the Dark Lord been a handsome king, and had deigned to grant a royal pardon to a condemned man.

Severus Snape didn't care in the slightest. He'd had to grovel for years between his two Masters. If another warrior of Light could be saved, he'd have most willingly licked Snakeface's boots clean.

It was different with Longbottom. There was something . . . special . . . about the lad.

Albus had briefly mentioned something about it to the Potions Master, once, in a Firewhiskey delirium they'd shared together. That had been right after Potter had won the TriWizard Tournament, and their learning the truthful fact of Voldemort's return.

As the present Headmaster, Severus Snape now knew the unique fact about Longbottom that perhaps the Dark Lord had forgotten . . . **if **he'd ever really known it at all.

It was all right there, in the lad's school records, but was accessible to only the Headmaster and the lad's Head of House, Minerva McGonagall.

Harry Potter was not the only baby boy born as the seventh month died seventeen years ago.

Just as midnight rolled the last day of July over, Frank and Alice Longbottom were delivered of a son within mere minutes of the birth of the Potter's little boy.

And Neville Longbottom had been the first-born of the two.

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_Now just how the hell had this all come about? I must have really died when that bitch, Nagini, attacked me. That has to be it. I died, and now I'm in hell._

Severus' dark head lolled over to his right in a drunken stupor.

He allowed his spinning head to rest for several long minutes against the cool leather backrest of the tall wingback chair.

Severus was quite satisfied to sit, very still, exactly where he was; at least until the bloody room decided to quit revolving and oscillating up and down.

He cut his black eyes over to where his fair-haired counterpart was lying face down on an expensive Italian leather sofa, drunkenly weeping and slobbering.

Severus Snape managed a self-deprecating smirk of a sad grin.

"Ah, Lucius. Quite the pair now, aren't we cousin?" He managed to slur over a tongue that felt as if it'd been injected with novacaine.

"Gone! All gone, Severus! Can't you see? Don't you know? They're both **gone!"** The other man rolled over and hoisted himself up, only to weave and bob on his unsteady legs.

Lucius Malfoy vainly attempted to straighten his hopelessly stained and wrinkled robes; a pale shaking hand raked trembling fingers through pale thoroughly knotted hair, unsuccessfully trying to smooth it into some sort of order.

"I'm going to the Dark Lord, and I'll claim to have been a spy. He'll certainly kill me then." He looked semi-sober for a few moments as his grief-stricken grey eyes stared in complete sincerity into emotion clouded black eyes.

Lucius cleared his throat, and thickly swallowed, before he continued, "I just can't live without my family. You're a stronger man than I am, cousin. You've been alone almost your entire life and managed. **I **don't know **how** to live without my family to support, need, and idolize me."

Severus' stormy black eyes took on a haunted, hollow, look.

His cousin hadn't cast any blame on him at all for being instrumental in Draco's demise. He'd been too shocked that his own flesh-and-blood, the only son who couldn't even snuff out an already dying old wizard's life, had attempted to take out the Dark Lord himself!

Lucius hadn't needed to accuse or place blame. Severus' own conscience throughly scourged his soul each time he remembered any of the many small redeeming things about Draco; he'd truly loved his godson.

A part of his mind would forever flagellate its' self over that single irreversable deed.

Severus sobered up enough during his brief introspection to snarl authoritatively, "Do not force me to 'Imperio' you, Lucius, or to confiscate your wand."

"If you think you have it bad, just spare a moment of your time to ponder Miss Weasley's loss. It's been three days now. She's not eaten or spoken. The girl has not even properly attended to her body functions. I had to 'Scourgify' her, **twice,** before I'd hold on to her to Apparate her here!"

His nostrils unconsciously quivered in remembrance of the stench that had clung to both of the young Gryffindor witches currently under his roof. Well, technically, Lucius Malfoy's roof but not for much longer if his blond cousin didn't straighten-up.

Severus leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees, sitting in an openly confiding manner.

He began speaking in liquored honesty, from his heart; man-to-man, cousin-to-cousin. His deep baritone trembled with barely surpressed emotion as he spoke, "Lucius, you are now essentially an orphan. A family man without a family."

He cleared his throat and glanced away from his cousin's grief-stricken, agonized, stare. Severus sighed and picked his next words carefully.

"Miss Weasley is truly an orphan now," Severus plunged on. "She's locked herself away in such a well of despair that I fear being unable to reach or mend her. She doesn't trust me, you see." He arched an inky eyebrow at the blond older man, as his lip briefly quirked up in bitter self-mockery.

Severus sighed again, and ploughed his way onward, "Perhaps only one who suffers just as she does can reach her. Perhaps neither of you need be alone. She **is** a Pureblood, Lucius. Her blossoming beauty at sixteen holds the promise of her later becoming an extraordinarily beautiful adult witch."

"That is something I expect you to honor as a confidence; that I can speak well of a Gryffindor. But then there **is **that Gryffindor mystique of them being wildly gifted and enthusiastic partners in bed."

Severus concluded his 'sales pitch' with a quite lecherous smirk, now thinking only of his brand-new personal Gryffindor sex-toy.

He'd let her heal. She was wounded, in pain, and in all probability still in shock herself.

_And then Miss Granger, then you will pay__for all of the trouble I've had to put myself to just to obtain you. Oh yes, my little lioness! You will most definitely __**pay!**_

END OF CHAPTER 4

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**A/N: A note to the reader:**

This story is being written in a revolving format. If the "time-line" of the story at first appears to be going forwards, then backwards, to you . . . congratulations. You're now immersed within my AU.

Time is a relative thing here; each step backwards is to give you the perspective of yet another character that holds a future place of importance within this novel-length tale.

Think of it as watching the "picture-within-picture" feature on a television screen and letting your attention go back and forth, thus keeping track of several programs at once.

I'm not apologizing anymore for all of my run-on sentences; I've repeatedly tried to break the nasty habit with absolutely no success. So . . . I've decided to simply embrace it, and to make it my own signature style. If it's driving you insane, then congratulations once more. You're now _truly_ immersed within my AU.

Glad to have you on board. _snickers_

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	5. Chapter 5

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DISCLAIMER: No intention of copyright infringement is intended by my liberal use of JKR's world and characters. I make no monies what-so-ever from this endeavor. Sad, but true. _Sighs!_

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CHAPTER 5: THE WAY IT STANDS NOW

Early the previous morning:

Severus felt his Dark Mark burning. It had awakened him from the first sound sleep that he'd allowed himself to have in days now.

He groaned and rubbed at the throbbing tattoo as he hoisted himself onto his feet. Voldemort must be impatient to get the day started; that he held the Summons for so long attested to the fact.

There'd be no time for a leisurely shower this morning. Severus had to settle for a brief 'Scourgify' before pulling on clean boxers and socks.

A quick trip to the loo, and he stepped into the first set of robes that his hand grabbed from his wardrobe.

As soon as his black dragon-hide boots were snugly on his feet, he Apparated away.

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Voldemort had taken up residence in Hogwarts itself, using it as his own personal castle. It had only taken him three days to reorganize and tidy up all of the loose ends of his conquest.

The Dark Lord had inexplicably come to depend on his powerful Potions Master for advice in most matters of state. Bellatrix must have only been jealous of Severus Snape's closeness to him, when she'd raised those false suspicions in his mind just before the battle had begun.

Why he'd ever trusted a bit of pussy, instead of Severus Snape's continually proven loyalty, he couldn't comprehend!

Voldemort also didn't fully understand why he should be relying so heavily on the sarcastic Potions Master now. He simply felt as though it were the . . . **right** . . . thing to do at this time.

It was a very strange feeling indeed for the current Master of the Wizarding World!

The Halfblood Prince resembled his uncle so strongly, in both his physical appearance and his magical talents and gifts. Perhaps that was it. Perhaps Severus Snape simply reminded the Dark Lord of his most trusted, most missed, long dead friend, Ethan Prince.

Voldemort wasn't sure if he liked this feeling of dependency. For now, he would simply tolerate the unaccustomed emotion and continue to use the Headmaster as his court advisor. Even kings and tyrants used councilors for their advice. They made such perfect, expendable, scapegoats should a ruler's politics and policies ever go awry.

He was also using Lucius Malfoy's prestige and handsome face in the position of Minister of Magic.

No one was under any illusions as to exactly **who** was really in charge.

The Dark Lord had simply decided that it would make things more palatable to the general masses if his rule was disguised as a beautiful treat, instead of the harsh reality of his frightfully demonic appearance.

_'Pay no attention to the man behind the curtain.'_

If Voldemort had ever seen the American Muggle film, "The Wonderful Wizard of Oz", this image of the 'wizard', manipulating his whole Emerald World, from behind the veil of his curtain would have most certainly struck his fancy.

Voldemort was now truly the sole ruler of his magical world, yet he remained hidden here, just out of sight. He, alone, was in charge and manipulating all of his loyal subjects from behind the scene, as if they were merely puppets.

However, unlike the fictitious wizard of that film, the young Tom Riddle really **could** work magic, just by wishing for it with all of his concentration.

When the flamboyantly dressed Professor Dumbledore had paid eleven-year-old Tom that unexpected visit at the state-run orphanage that he'd been born in, and calmly explained to him that he really was a wizard, the boy wasn't even surprised.

Tom had known for a long time that he was not like other children. That he was _special._ He'd merely accepted the hand-delivered invitation from the strange man, and thought to himself, "Well it's about bloody time!"

Voldemort's attention jerked back to the present, with a sudden 'thump' of anxiety, as he slowly and coolly scrutinized his reptilian physical appearance in his full-length mirror.

Even though the Dark Lord hid it well, lately his unfortunate, and quite unintentional, resemblance to his old House symbol had begun to make him just the tiniest bit self-conscious.

_'No matter; the little fey witch seems unfazed by my face. I've waited long enough.' _

What was done was done. It was far too late now to alter his means of resurrection. The whole future was now before him, and he finally and properly ruled it all. Why dwell on the past?

Shoving the tip of the Elder Wand fiercely into his own marked arm, Voldemort sent out his call. He did not even flinch at the fiery pain it caused, or wince at the faint odor of his burning flesh that slowly filled the air of his bedchamber.

He impatiently sub-vocalized the necessary words to spur the compliance of the servants that he currently wanted 'front-and-center'.

It was time to get this day started. After all, the Master of the entire Wizarding World didn't get married just every day. There was still much left to do.

The Dark Lord checked his reflection in the mirror, his eyes merely skimming over his visage.

His expensively tailored black velvet robes, richly embroidered with silver and emerald-green serpents, looked impressive and showed his sleek physique to its best advantage.

He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named smoothed another imaginary wrinkle from his impeccable sleeve. He readjusted the collar of his formal robe, and checked his mirror one last time.

He was satisfied.

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Lucius Malfoy groaned, rolled over, and immediately puked on the expensive oriental carpeting of his bedroom floor.

Since the deaths of Narcissa and Draco, he'd had to drink himself unconscious every night just to be able to get any sleep at all. He'd become addicted to Dreamless Sleep Draught during Draco's early . . . difficult . . . years.

Because of that fact, Severus refused to supply him again with any of it. He'd offered him a Calming Draught instead.

Lucius didn't want to be calm; he wanted to be oblivious!

The searing pain of the Dark Lord's third Summons of the morning had finally jolted him into nauseated wakefulness.

He'd ignored his personal house elf, Stubbs, repeated attempts to wake him. Now it was his own fault that there'd be no long, hot, sobering, shower this morning.

Stubbs 'tsked' and reproachfully shook his large head as he 'Vanished' the vomit, and the odor along with it.

Silently, he passed his Master a small yellow vial. Lucius was surprised at Severus' generosity, but he still greedily sucked down the SoberUp potion that had been left for him.

After all, Severus Snape was a guest in his home. An occasional host's gift was perfectly acceptable; as fellow Slytherins, it was almost mandatory.

In a matter of moments, with Stubbs assistance, Lucius Malfoy was feeling and looking much more the thing; cleaned, pressed, dressed, and coiffed.

He checked his manicured nails. Perfect.

He Apparated away to meet his Lord's summons, with not even ten minutes passing since he'd first awakened.

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From where she sat in the iron and stone chamber, Luna Lovegood wondered again how Hermione was faring in the Muggleborn holding cells.

She and Ginny (although Luna wasn't certain just **where** the Ginny that everyone knew was) were sitting huddled together, a little separate from the other Pureblood girls.

Luna sensed that 'something different' was about to happen to them today. She didn't understand how or why she knew that, she simply **knew** it.

She wrapped her slender arms a bit tighter around Ginny when she watched Gregory Goyle unlock the cell door and approach them, with his wand drawn.

"You! Loony Lovegood! You're to come with me. Now!" The dullard, trainee Death Eater, ordered in a superior tone.

Luna stood up and possessively pulled an unresisting Ginny to her feet. There was no bloody way in this world that Luna Lovegood was going to leave Ginny behind.

In the redhead's present mental state it would be the equivalent of leaving a newborn at home alone; defenseless and utterly dependent, with starving werewolves circling its bassinet.

"Hey! W'ot cher think you're doing, Loony?" screeched Goyle. "The Master din't say anythin' about bringing the Weasel. She stays put. I ain't gettin' myself 'Crucio'd by the Dark Lord for a bloody fuckin' Gryffindor nutter!"

Luna's long smoke darkened hair began to lift and swirl around her dirty face, as her anger released the ancient Eildarvitch magics that she held so tightly under control within her.

Her eyes inexplicably turned a brightly glowing luminescent blue just before they fixed and locked with Goyle's shit-brown eyes. He instantly froze in place and, for the life of him, could not break their magically bonded eye contact.

Under any other circumstance, Luna would have never resorted to using the powerful reservoirs of Eildarvitch magic for such a forbidden spell. However, these were desperate times.

Desperate times demanded desperate measures Luna rationalized to herself. In her mind, protecting the helpless Ginny Weasley far outweighed the cost to her soul of performing an Unforgivable.

She wriggled her slim fingers before the big bully's fat face and firmly whispered, "Imperio!"

Goyle's body immediately stood to attention; the weak minded were **so** easily influenced.

"The Dark Lord will want to see Ginny Weasley for himself. She must come too," Luna ordered the Slytherin. Gregory Goyle would now believe it had all been part of his original order, with no memory of their exchange. She suddenly released him, just as the very last of her energy reserves drained out of her.

They hadn't been fed in three days. There had barely been any energy at all left within her to draw from. If Goyle hadn't been such an imbecile, Luna doubted that it would have even worked at all.

As it stood, at least she'd be able to tend to poor Ginny a little while longer.

That was something anyway, given the harsh reality that things were now the way that they were.

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Rabastan Lestrange laid a heavy restraining hand on the bony shoulder of Nott the Younger. The boy before him froze to attention, as soon as he realized just **who** had grabbed him.

"I'll be fetching the Mudblood to the Master," said Rabastan, carefully keeping his expression and voice neutral.

"But the Master sent **me** to do it," whined young Nott. "I can't disobey the Dark Lord!"

It wasn't so much that he feared disobeying the Dark Lord, as it was wanting to feel his cock filling up Potter's pretty little Mudblood whore that made Nott defend his task.

The whore would be taking plenty of Death Eater cock soon enough, and young Nott simply wanted to dip his 'wand' into the pool first. He'd wanted 'bragging rights' concerning Potter's Mudblood.

Rabastan dangerously drew himself up. "I said that **I **will fetch her," he reiterated in a flat, too calm, tone as he reached into his Death Eater robes, and lovingly fingered his wand with a deadpan expression. Only his deep brown eyes glittered with suppressed viciousness to warn young Nott of his danger.

Nott understood instantly. He gulped and subserviently backed away. "Yes sir. Sorry sir," he meekly said. It wasn't worth it; to fuck with the Dark Lord's Inner Circle was to end up werewolf food with none ever becoming the wiser.

Besides, there would still be plenty of leftover Mudblood pussy to pick from once the pack leaders had taken their share. He could bide his time. Perhaps his father would even slip him one early, before he developed a serious case of blueballs.

Hermione slowly looked up from where she sat, curled up around herself, in a surprisingly vacant corner of the holding cell. Every Muggleborn witch sharing her cell had scrunched as far away from the late Harry Potter's best female friend as they could.

Each one of them instinctively realized that something **special** would surely be Hermione Granger's fate. Not one of them wanted to share that fate simply by association, so they had all abandoned her as much as they possibly could, considering the limited space that held them confined.

A shimmer of dropping wards slid across the bars of the holding cell, and the young female Muggleborns gasped almost in unison when Rabastan Lestrange unlocked their cell door and entered. They parted like the Red Sea before him, as he strode directly over to where a lone, miserable, girl sat huddled.

Hermione slowly raised her head and stared at the tall dark wizard standing before her. Brown eyes met brown eyes. One pair was mutinously defiant--the other was calmly complaisant.

"Miss Hermione Granger, I presume?" the dark wizard pronounced with a slight, mocking, inclination of his black head.

So. This was it. They'd finally sent for her.

In a way, it was almost a blessing that she was finally about to die. She only prayed for the strength to die fighting, if possible, and with dignity if it was not.

_Right! Dignity my arse!_

Hermione slowly stood up, then gave the elite Death Eater a mocking curtsy of her own as she said, "Rabastan Lestrange, I am sure. Did Voldemort finally pull his dick out of your arse long enough to actually send you for me?"

The next instant Hermione groggily looked back up at Rabastan from where she lay on the ground.

He'd hit her so hard that one eye was rapidly closing with the promise of a right proper 'shiner'. She distinctly tasted blood from where his ring had laid open her left cheek, and deeply cut into her bottom lip.

"How **dare** you speak his name, you filthy little Mudblood whore! Your new master will soon teach you proper manners; now on your feet. **Move, witch!"** He harshly ordered, as he dragged her up onto her feet.

The other girls sharing the cell were pressing hard backwards, away from this unfolding drama. No one even noticed that a young fifth year Hufflepuff was slowly being crushed to death between their backs and the cold metal bars that confined them.

It was only Hermione's being hauled up and dragged out of the cell that allowed the young girl to breathe once more. The press of the throng squeezing her against the thick iron bars had broken her right arm, but at least she was still alive. Barely.

Confused by the hallway's appearance, Hermione stumbled along; the poking and prodding of the Death Eater escorting her as her only source of direction. She'd never thought that she would ever be lost inside of Hogwarts.

However now Hogwarts itself seemed to have magically changed, and not for the better.

It had taken on a darker, sinister, more gothic cast since Voldemort had claimed it as his own. Hogwarts had become quite Machiavellian in its' mildewing flavor, with long dark shadows now lingering where once bright sunshine had shone and airy breezes had blown.

Most of the painted portrait people were silently hiding in their scenery as best as they could. Of all the castle ghosts, only the Bloody Baron of Slytherin House still freely floated around, victoriously rattling his chains.

The former Great Hall was now temporarily serving as the Dark Lord's audience chamber.

He was using the impressive ancient oaken Headmaster's chair as an implied throne; it already stood in the center of the dais anyway. His elite Inner Circle sat in a line of seats on either side of him.

It was indeed her Judgment Day. Rabastan shoved her down onto her knees and went to take his seat beside Bella and his brother, Rodolphus.

"Ah, Miss Granger," the Dark Lord pleasantly said. "Still alive I see . . . and relatively unharmed?" He left the statement hanging open as a question.

A question that she'd best respond to, if the filthy little Mudblood knew what was good for her.

"Quite . . . well . . . sir," Hermione proudly lied, after struggling for a moment with just what to call the evil wizard enthroned before her.

"Good. That is well then. You will be in fine shape for your new position in life," Voldemort said with an immense degree of self-satisfaction, and a vicious smirk.

END OF CHAPTER 5

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	6. Chapter 6

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DISCLAIMER: If you haven't yet guessed it, no, I'm not Jo Rowling. I just like playing with her characters. Especially the dark and dangerous ones. _snickers_

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CHAPTER 6: LATER THAT SAME MORNING

Severus Snape respectfully knelt before the Dark Lord, warily observing him through the veil of his thick black eyelashes. It had been years since he'd witnessed the Master take such pains with his appearance.

If the sardonic Potions Master hadn't known that it could not possibly be so, he'd have thought the Dark Lord was as nervous as an untried schoolboy this morning.

Voldemort indicated the seat on his left with a single long-fingered gesture. It was an unexpected honor, and Severus gingerly took the offered position. There was a fine line between the Dark Lord's good and bad moods.

Severus silently prayed for a 'good mood' kind of day.

He took a few minutes to surreptitiously observe the Dark Lord. It would also help that any anger that the Dark Lord might be feeling towards him, personally, would instead be directed in Lucius Malfoy's direction this morning. The pale-haired wizard had been even later to respond to the Master's summons than he had.

_'Better him than me!' _Severus grimly thought to himself.

"Today is an important day, Severus," Voldemort began his carefully prepared speech.

At that moment Lucius suddenly appeared in the Great Hall with a 'clap' of Apparition. He instantly fell to his knees in obeisance. That still didn't stop the Dark Lord from 'Crucio'ing him for several long, painful, minutes to express his annoyance.

When the required scream was finally wrenched from between his handsome lips, Voldemort finally released the new Minister of Magic.

Lucius was rolling on the grey flagstone floor, sweating from the pain, suffering the Unforgivable's convulsive after-effects, at the feet of the Dark Lord.

"Thank you, Master," he gasped. Lucius was attempting to not piss himself, when one of the spasming muscles of his broad back suddenly convulsed down and cracked two of his lower ribs.

Lucius Malfoy immediately lost the battle with his bladder. Until he somehow found his way completely back in the Dark Lord's favour, the wealthiest wizard of the Wizarding World was now his Master's personal whipping boy. And it seemed that the Dark Lord liked it like that.

"Clean it up, Severusss," sibilantly drawled the Dark Lord, as he examined his own fingernails for manicured neatness.

Severus stood up and walked over to where Lucius was still writhing in his own piss. Neither man could meet the other's eye.

Twin red flags of embarrassment burned equally on both wizards' cheekbones as Severus drew his wand and cast a brief, but long-lasting, healing spell to ease the worst of Lucius' pain and stop his convulsions.

He started to walk away, but hesitated, turned around, and cast a 'Scourgify' to clean and dry both clothing and man. Slipping his wand back inside of its' hidden pocket in his all-black robes, Severus offered Lucius a hand up.

Malfoy accepted it gratefully, and carefully eased his still aching body up onto his feet.

Voldemort observed all of this with a bored stare. He indicated the seat on his right side to Malfoy with a regal nod of his bald reptilian head.

Lucius didn't need to be told twice; he scurried as quickly as he was able to take the indicated seat. Severus followed more leisurely, but even he didn't dare dawdle.

With an aggrieved sigh, their Master began again, "As I was saying, before you so very rudely interrupted me, Lu-sss-iuss, today is a very important day. You will go to the Ministry of Magic and proclaim this as an official holiday weekend. Arrange with Gringotts to pay extra wages to each Ministry worker. This afternoon I will decide the dispensation of the Purebloods and Halfbloods that we are currently holding. Afterwards, I shall have several surprises and rewards for certain members of my Inner Ssssircle."

Voldemort's irritation and impatience caused his speech to be a bit more sibilant, even as he struggled to suppress it, as a stutterer attempts to control their staggering speech pattern.

Severus and Lucius both obediently nodded their agreement with their Master, and gave no sign that they'd even noticed his disability. The Dark Lord was pleased. He even preened a bit under their joint approval.

Lord Voldemort gave them what, for him, was a genuine smile . . . that corpse's grinning death-mask of a too-widely stretched grin.

He regally nodded at the two men, and then continued, "As I plan on wedding my Consort this night, I have decided that the entire Wizarding World should be allowed to celebrate along with me. My warriors have earned their Revels. Tonight, they shall finally have them."

Severus' heart leapt up into his throat. What would the Dark Lord do to him if he dared to select **her** for himself?

Probably kill both of them. The girl had been one of the so-called 'Golden Trio'; the Dark Lord wouldn't entrust her to just anyone.

She had to go to somebody, if the Dark Lord decided to spare her life. Why not to him?

No. The Dark Lord had only just begun to trust him once more. He'd surely give her to a Death Eater that had never given him the least reason for mistrust, perhaps . . . Rabastan?

Neither the Dark Lord, nor the girl herself, would ever agree to Severus Snape becoming her Master.

Surely, he'd be more palatable to her as a lover than Mulciber, Avery, or the unmarried, straight, Lestrange brother. Without feeling the least bit boastful of the fact, Severus was positive that he'd be an infinitely better choice than Goyle, Nott, or Crabbe Senior!

The senior Crabbe still blamed Harry Potter for his only son's death by Fiendfyre. Potter himself was now beyond his vengeful grasp. It was a certainty that he'd make Potter's only female best friend pay and pay and pay for it, in his stead.

That fat bastard had a 'thing' for whips, chains, white-hot branding irons, and sharp, sharp things; as well as a predilection for buggery. He was both a pedophile and a true sadist.

Severus Snape had been made to 'tidy up' the messy loose ends that Crabbe sometimes found himself with, by thinking with the head with no brain inside, on more than one occasion by the Dark Lord. It became a normal punishment inflicted by the Master on his surly Potions Master for any disobedience, or supposed infractions, whether real or merely imagined.

Even the strong-stomached Potions Master had lost his supper on one of those clean-up missions. The body in question was almost unrecognizable as having ever been a human being.

Severus had later learned that 'it' had once been a captured twelve-year-old Muggle girl. She'd been a mute and small for her age.

Crabbe had tried every weapon in his vast arsenal to get her to scream. He had never even cared to learn why she'd failed to do so.

Crabbe was placed on Snape's **special** list that night. It might take him years to achieve what he'd planned for the senior Crabbe, as he'd cleaned up and disposed of the tattered bits of the child's flesh that night, but his vengeance would be oh-so-sweet when it finally happened.

Even for Death Eaters, some things should still be sacred, the innocence of a child being the foremost in the brooding Potions Master's mind.

Contrary to popular opinion, Professor Severus Snape had never 'hated' children, or ever considered the possibility that others might view his conduct towards his young charges as being cruel. He'd simply known what their possible fate would one day be, should the Dark Lord be victorious.

The Professor had merely been 'toughening' them up, no matter how he'd gone about it. At least in his own mind.

He blinked several times, as he pushed those thoughts back deep down behind his impenetrable walls of Occlumency, and returned his full attention to the Dark Lord with a sharp nod of his black head.

"Good; that is good then. Lucius will bring the license and perform the ceremony as Minister of Magic, and you will attend to anything my Consort-to-be requires. You will make certain that she is agreeable to this Severusss. Do **not** disappoint me," Voldemort sternly ended.

"Of course, my Lord," Severus confidently responded with a respectful bow of his head.

"If I might speak to Lucius for just a moment, my Lord? It is a matter of little import, simply housing arrangements for our . . . 'personal' revel," he concluded with a lascivious smirk that twisted his thin lips up.

Voldemort imperiously waved Severus away to hurry after Lucius' swiftly departing back. Others of the Inner Circle were now arriving, and he had more orders to issue.

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Harry Potter slowly opened his emerald-green eyes.

Yep. He was back in that strange version of King's Cross Station.

He glanced around, but couldn't see Dumbledore anywhere this time. That strange, raw, thumping creature that he'd assumed had been a bit of Voldemort's humanity was also missing.

Harry leaned his unruly dark head back, and sighed. He knew instantly what he'd done wrong. He didn't need Professor Dumbledore here to tell him.

It was when he'd seen the bleeding, barely alive, Professor Snape struggling towards his position out of the corner of his eye that the Darkness had taken him.

He'd become enflamed with hot, justified, anger at all of the hardships that the ill-treated Potions Master had endured for years, under both of his Masters, and all on his account. At least it had been in his behalf according to the memories he's retrieved and viewed through Dumbledore's Pensive.

He'd not simply tried to disarm the Dark Lord. No. He'd tried to kill him.

That simple action, calling on the Unforgivable, had proven his soul unworthy to possess the Elder wand. In its' rejection of him, his curse had rebounded on him. It was only what he'd deserved for letting Darkness take its' hold on him.

Harry knew that he was dead, but what would happen if he didn't take the next train?

Then something truly **different** happened this time around to Harry Potter. He suddenly found himself looking out through a ruby-tinted window at what appeared to be a stage play.

Neville Longbottom was singed, but defiantly drawn up; the smoldering Sorting Hat on the ground at his feet. Snape was kneeling, and appeared to be humbly bartering for the young Gryffindor to the audience of himself, here, behind this window.

_'Where in the world am I now?' _wondered Harry, looking around at what appeared to be a dank, dark, stone chamber. The cobwebs, mildew, and dust of years' worth of accumulation thickly lay everywhere.

There was a whimpering form in the far corner; a skinny little boy of about 8 or 9 years of age, who looked as if a sadist had scoured every inch of his tender skin off with coarse sandpaper.

The raw, pitiable, scrap of humanity was oddly reminiscent of that horrific piece of Voldemort's soul that Harry had seen once before when talking to Dumbledore in the station. Except that this time it was fully formed, and clearly recognizable as human.

Harry turned to approach him, and the little boy suddenly shrank back from him in terror.

"Stay away! Don't touch me! You're a bad man. You tried to kill me," the child fearfully whined.

Harry froze in place. He'd **never** tried to kill anyone . . . except . . . Voldemort.

Sweet Merlin! Harry suddenly realized where he was, where he **had** to be.

This must be the inside of Voldmort's mind, and then these dank walls . . . could it be? The glimpse Harry had inside of Professor Snape's mind had also appeared as stone walls, when Harry had unexpectedly broken through them during his private Occlumency lessons with him during his Fifth year.

A deep knowledge of 'rightness' settled the matter in Harry's mind. He must be inside of Voldemort's mind, and that would mean that this poor creature could only be . . . Voldemort's . . . humanity?

"Yes, I did, but I'm very sorry about that now. I wouldn't have done that if I'd realized that you were in here. If you'll forgive me, I promise that I'll never do it again," soothingly replied Harry, just as if he was attempting to calm a startled hippogriff.

The raw child whimpered again, and then whispered, "I hurt real bad. Can you fix me?"

The total helplessness, and hopelessness, burning in the child's dark eyes tore at Harry's heart. He had once been a neglected and hurting orphan himself.

"I'm truly sorry. I'd heal you if I could, but I don't have my wand anymore," Harry softly replied.

The child scuttled a tiny bit closer to Harry. It didn't seem like this man was going to hurt him again and he **had** said he would have healed him if possible. Maybe he should warn him?

"He's going to do the bad thing again real soon," it whispered to Harry. "Can you stop him from doing the bad thing? Every time he does it, I hurt worser."

Harry's emerald eyes burnt with sympathetic tears for this very last innocent part of Lord Voldemort. What answer could he possibly give?

He looked back out of the window that he now realized to be the Dark Lord's eyes, at the on-going tableau. Harry pointed to the humbly kneeling Snape and asked the trembling little boy, "Do you know that man?"

Very timidly, the frail flayed bit of whatever was left of Voldemort's humanity gave a quick, frightened, glimpse out of the window, gasped, and swiftly ran back to cower in its' corner again. "He's supposed to be dead! The snake got him. _He_ says the snake got him!"

"Yes. The snake did get him, that's true. I was there and saw it. But he's a very brave and powerful wizard, and somehow the snake didn't manage to kill him. Can you hear what he's saying right now?"

The child cocked his dark head to the side as if listening to something only he could hear. He slowly nodded, then answered, "Yes. He's begging mercy for the other man, the man that _he_ wants to do the bad thing to."

Harry smiled; even now, at the final hour, Professor Severus Snape was still bravely trying to save the life of a Gryffindor that he personally couldn't stand. Snape must have always truly been Dumbledore's man.

All he needed was a chance. Harry decided to try to give it to him, in his mother's name, for the love the Potions Master had held all these years for Lily.

"You know, if you'll listen and do as Snape says, perhaps he can heal you, or help you to somehow heal yourself. He protected me for years because he'd given his word, in the name of love, to do so, even though he hated me. You can trust him above all others."

The child focused all of his attention on Harry, and slowly nodded his unruly dark head. "I'll try," the child doubtfully whispered, "but sometimes _he_ still does the bad things, even when I scream for him not to."

Harry could feel himself slipping away again, but dimly heard the child call out, as if from far-far-away, "Who are you?"

Harry called back through the swirling silvery-white mists now rapidly engulfing him, "I am your friend."

And then he was gone.

END OF CHAPTER 6

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A/N: And you thought that you wouldn't be hearing anything more from Harry Potter!

However, in the Wizarding World (at least in my AU of it), **nothing** is rarely ever as it seems.

Well, **almost** nothing, anyways. _snickers, and grins like the Chestershire cat! _

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	7. Chapter 7

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**A/N: I'm not JKR; get over it . . . **_**--**__snickers__**--**_

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**Chapter 7****: or; The Talking Deads**

Harry found himself back at the strange King's Cross station once more. It was a bit different this time 'round.

The platform was a hive of happy people greeting friends and relatives amongst them. A bright blue train was busily loading passengers from the now crowded platform.

Many of them Harry had never met before; though some of whom he recognized from his daytrips into Hogsmead over the years, or had seen as a student passing them through the crowded corridors of Hogwarts.

There were also a select few scattered among them that he knew personally.

First among those few was a bustling Molly Weasley, calling out, "Fred! Where've you gotten to now, you scamp? FRED! Fred, oh there you are! Don't wander off again, and keep hold of your ticket. Arthur? Have you found Percy and Charlie yet?"

The Weasley patriarch answered his wife with a twinkle in his hazel eyes, "Yes, dearest. I found them and they'll be along shortly. They're over at the Information Desk. You know how they both always want to know **everything.**"

The couple exchanged amused glances with each other at their private little parenting joke.

Even when potty-training, everything had had to be explained in great detail to both Charlie and Percy before they'd either dare to sit on the toilet.

The two of them had also taught themselves to read before the age of four, with Bill's help, just so they could understand the mysterious words that their parents 'spelled out' in front of them.

That both of them had followed in their eldest brother's footsteps to later both become Head Boy of their respective Year's had not came as any surprise to either parent.

Harry's heart ached in the knowledge of the loving family's death. Harry had grown to look on the Weasley clan as the family he **might **have had, if not for Voldemort.

Even here, in this mysterious waiting room, his heart could still painfully grieve for the loss of yet more 'family'.

As sorrowful tears began to fill his emerald eyes, he felt a hand slap him on the back.

"Oi! Hi ya, Harry!" Ron's smiling freckled face beamed at him.

"RON!" Harry joyfully screamed as the two best friends embraced in a tight hug, and engaged in much back-slapping and laughter.

"You look great! But . . . Ron . . . if you're here, then that means that you're . . ."

"Yeah. I know," he somberly replied to Harry's unfinished sentence.

"Just my time, mate. Nothing you could've done to have stopped it even if you'd been there. I never saw it coming; more's the mercy. One minute I was running through the Dark Forest for all I was worth, then . . . nothing. I never felt a thing. Strange it'n it? It was easier than falling asleep."

"Yeah. I remember," Harry soberly said, thinking back on Sirius' final advice to him that night back in Godric's Hollow. "But you look great now! Death really suits you."

"Same to you, you poncy git!" Ron smartly responded with a broad grin. "What's happened to your glasses . . . and . . . bloody hell, Harry! Your scar's gone!"

"Yeah, I know. I guess I don't need them here," the green-eyed young wizard replied to his redhaired best friend.

Molly Weasley came bustling over toward them, her loud voice simultaneously scolding and loving. "There you are, Ronald. Here's your ticket," the Weasley matriarch said as she passed him a slip of blue parchment.

"Keep hold of your ticket, there's a good lad, and board the train before the last whistle. Do not miss the train, or I'll box your ears for days."

Molly turned to observe Fred's attempting to wandlessly levitate himself above the station; she flounced away with an annoyed huff to pull him back in line.

The parents were acting like this was simply another great adventuring Weasley family vacation, and expected it to be great fun. Perhaps for them it was.

Ron stared down at the glowing golden letters embossed on the sky-blue ticket. "Bloody hell, Harry. I've only got a few minutes left before the train leaves."

Brilliant blue eyes misting with tears raised to solemnly stare into emerald green. "Where's your ticket, Harry?" he tremblingly asked.

"I haven't got one," Harry softly responded.

"Not yet, anyways. See, I've been here once before and talked to Dumbledore that first time. He told me that there was something special about my blood; about how since Voldemort had taken my blood, and my mother's love that it held within it, to help reconstitute himself physically that it bound us together. So that as long as he lived, I could not truly die."

Ron softly whistled, then said in an awed whisper, "Blood magick; that's what he did! Harry, that's the very darkest of all of the Dark Arts. He's bound your very souls together! What can you do about it?"

"I don't know yet Ron; but I believe that there must be some form of Higher Power using me, and this connection we share, to prevent the whole Wizarding World from falling into chaos. Whatever it is that I'm still supposed to do . . . well . . . once it's been done, I think that **then **I'll get my ticket."

Ron choked down a sorrowful sob for his misused friend. Harry was stuck and unable to move on.

He'd had it so very wrong for years; Harry'd never reveled in the spot-light's glare that had been forced upon him when Voldemort had marked him as his mortal nemesis when he'd survived the Killing Curse as a baby.

He'd never wanted the admiration and glory of being the Hero, the long-anticipated Saviour, that had been thrust upon him as an eleven year old boy.

All his friend had **ever** wanted was to be 'just Harry', have a place of his very own to belong to, and people around him who loved him.

Even as hard as his short life had been, Harry still had a remarkable amount of love in his heart to give. Remus had been right; Harry was very much his mother's son.

Perhaps that very love, the love that Voldemort denied the existence of, would be what would eventually turn their defeat around and bring back the Light.

The train blew a long, keening, last whistle and Ron looked once more into Harry's eyes. He said, "Harry, I've gotta go now; or Mum will kill me."

The two young wizards quirked mirroring grins at each other.

"Go on then. Off with you," Harry responded with a joking punch to Ron's shoulder. "Best of luck to you, mate. Pick me up at the station when I get there too, will you?" he half-jokingly, half-seriously, asked.

Ron swiftly replied, "Of course I'll meet you at the other station, mate. Count on it." He began trotting towards the final few boarding passengers, then stopped and turned to wave.

Harry lifted his hand and returned his best mate's wave.

Ron called out, "Oi! Harry? P'raps love is the weapon that you needed all along to kill Voldemort with. Tom Riddle might could've been redeemed; it was only after he'd made himself into the Dark Lord that he truly crossed the line into Unforgivables and Horcruxes."

He turned and ran to grab the steprail and hop onto the last car of the bright blue train as it pulled out of this strange King's Cross.

Ronald Weasley had been awesomely gifted with strategy; he had always been able to see the proper moves well in advance when playing Wizard's chess.

Perhaps it wasn't checkmate for the side of Light just yet.

Perhaps this was only a re-match.

Harry turned and walked back over to resume his seat to ponder what Ron had just said.

It could have been minutes, or hours, or even days that he sat thinking and remembering; it mattered little to the Boy Who had Lived only to die.

He wasn't hungry; he felt no thirst; although from time-to-time he thought that he felt a breeze, warm and infinitely loving, caress his skin and ruffle his unruly dark hair.

Time had no meaning here; everything simply **was.**

From a long way off in the misty distance, Harry suddenly thought that he heard the keening falsetto of a panicked child's voice shrilly calling--

_"Friend? FRIEND! Where are you? Please help me, friend . . . I can't do this. Friend, I need you!"_

Harry stood up, and calmly went to help the fragile bit that still remained of Voldemort's humanity; if there was any way that he possibly could.

**End of Chapter 7**

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**A/A/N: And yes, I meant for there to be an "s" on the end of Talking Deads; it was a play on words--anybody out there ever heard of the Talking Heads? **_**--**__snickers__**-- **_

**It has come to my attention that I'm not lingering long enough, or explaining thoroughly enough, the scenes that you've been reading. Sorry. I didn't mean to be so confusing, only secretive with my plot. (and I **_**am**_** coming back to them in the next few chapters to wrap up the loose threads and move ahead with the plot-bunnies**_**--**__snickers_**.)**

**In case you didn't guess already, this story's Prologue was really the End of the Tale.**

**I've been showing what's happening (simultaneously) for SEVERAL characters that this story will be featuring via a revolving format; now I'd like to take a vote, please. **

**Those who would prefer separate chapters of each character's POV of the same scene instead of the revolving format that I'm currently using, this is your chance. (please review & let me know) Otherwise I'll be going on as I've begun. **

**Thanks so much to everyone that has actually reviewed this ficlet of mine. You are the spur that my muse needs to keep going. You inspire me.**

**Signed, Victoria Prince**

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	8. Chapter 8

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**A/N: same deal; I am definitely not Jo . . . no, it's true. I'm really, really not.**

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Severus stood stock-still, locked in deep thought, in the hallway from where Lucius had Apparated away on his assigned task only moments ago.

No. There was no way of helping it. Poor little fey child.

Severus closed his jet-black eyes for a moment and regretfully sighed.

This would simply have to be one more black sin to stain his already ink-dark soul . . . to provide a living virgin sacrifice to this demon that was his Master.

Almost instinctively his footsteps turned and followed the steep stone staircase down to the dungeons; down towards the comfort and familiarity of what had been his 'home' for nearly twenty years of his life.

Severus didn't know where else **to** go.

Besides that, there were several potions and salves secreted away in his hidden private stores that he could provide for the young witch. He was already mentally going over his inventory.

There were several that he already had on hand with which to make her maiden's plight more bearable both during, and after, the ordeal that she'd surely be enduring this night.

Severus had witnessed the Dark Lord 'performing' at revels; contrary to what was widely said, all wizards were not created 'equal'. Voldemort was very well-hung, and used his cock to punish instead of to pleasure.

Severus wouldn't even allow himself to imagine the terrors awaiting the poor little virgin on her wedding night; all he could offer were things to soothe and heal.

If that was all the mercy he could give the young witch, so be it.

At least it was **something.**

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**It Takes One to Know One**

Gregory Goyle sharply jabbed the tip of his wand between Luna's shoulder blades trying to hurry her along, even though both of the girls were already doing everything that he ordered them to do.

Gregory Goyle couldn't swim; he hated knowing that only the vaulted stone roof of these corridors and a bit of muddy lake bottom was all that kept a watery death from descending in a deluge upon him from above.

He attempted to disguise his fears, stemming from how deep they actually were under the Black Lake, but failed miserably.

Like all bullies, Gregory Goyle hid his own fears beneath the mask of cruelty and brutality toward others.

They'd only come up one or two levels within the dungeons when he suddenly turned them towards a vaguely more familiar corridor to their left.

Luna hugged Ginny more tightly about her waist as she pulled the docile girl even more quickly along; it seemed as if their destination was to be the Head of Slytherin House's office.

Surely things were now looking up for them, and Luna finally allowed a faint hum of some unknown, slightly off-key, tune to slip from her lips. Ginny shivered in her arms, and Luna gave her a comforting squeeze.

Goyle stopped before the closed door, pushed the two girls to the side, and knocked.

The door slowly creaked open by itself, as it did for any Slytherin who knocked. Goyle indicated for them to enter with a bossy nod of his thick head and final imperative jab of his wand pointing their way.

Luna pulled an unresisting Ginny even tighter against her side, and the pair tentatively stepped inside.

As the heavy dark oaken door again creaked when it slowly shut behind them, Neville Longbottom leapt up from the bench where he'd been sitting.

"Luna! Ginny! You're alive!" he exclaimed as he exuberantly embraced them both.

Neville sobered as soon as he'd observed Ginny's lack of response and void expression. It reminded him of the blankness of his parents whenever he'd visited them in St. Mungo's with his gran.

He silently led the girls over to share his bench, and gently helped Ginny to sit down.

With Ginny taken care of, Luna chose instead to wander around the office to curiously peer into the various jars and containers of pickled and preserved rare and ugly creatures that were Severus' private little museum of intimidating horrors.

Thus it was that only Luna observed the hidden door at the back of the office open to admit the dark Potions Master himself.

Neville simply assumed that he'd 'popped' in from thin air as he approached them carrying a tray of steaming mugs of some kind of poison or potion.

The young Gryffindor wasn't exactly sure which they contained; either seemed to be just as likely when served up by his personal boggart made flesh.

Severus set the tray down on his mahogany desk and ordered them to "drink up".

Luna Lovegood arched a quizzical pale eyebrow at him, Ginny Weasley just sat there zombie-like, and Neville Longbottom crossed his arms defiantly across his broad chest as he shook his dark head in the negative.

The Potions Master gave an exasperated sigh, picked up one of the cups, and drank a long swallow from it's steaming depths. He sat the cup back down, and calmly took a seat behind his desk.

After a full five minutes, Severus cocked an amused eyebrow up himself as he said, "Obviously if I had intended to poison the lot of you, I wouldn't consume the potion myself or I'd be dead by now."

"What is it then?" suspiciously asked Neville.

Well, well! Apparently the boy had finally discovered his own set of Gryffindor balls, then.

Maybe there **was** still a reason to hope.

Severus gave a wry grin, and allowed his honest amusement to be seen to glimmer across his normally sardonic visage. It amazed the young wizard and the one cognizant young witch watching him.

"It's simply a nutrition potion. I've only just learned that none of the prisoners have been given any food, water, or medical treatment. It's been three days now; to immediately eat any quantity of real food will have rather 'explosive' consequences on your malnurished bodies, Mister Longbottom," Severus replied in his 'teaching voice'. "I had thought to spare you all of the physical indignities you will otherwise experience."

"By consuming this potion all of your depleted cells will be replenished, properly balanced, and better able to heal. That is what we'll be moving on to next, if you'll simply follow my orders instead of relying on your foolish assumptions." Severus paused to give a bored perusal to his manicure.

His nails had never been cleaner or smoother; Lucius' house elf really did a fine job of it.

Perhaps he'd allow his personal house elf, Gristle, to learn the technique for his continued benefit. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Luna reach for one of the cups.

Neville's hand stopped her in mid-reach. He manfully took up the cup in her stead, and drank it down in three long choking swallows.

"Bloody hell! That's **nasty!" **he exclaimed and he repeatedly wiped at his lips, as if to take away the bitter flavor.

After only mere seconds, Neville's color was much improved; he felt stronger, and was no longer hungry. He smiled at Luna and nodded.

Luna took up a cup for herself, and daintily sipped at it, wrinkling her nose at the potion's horrid flavor and smell. "Thank you for the potion, sir," Luna politely said as she replaced the now mostly empty cup on the tray.

She paused, then gently chided, "Sir? Is there any reason that it should taste and smell so horrible? You are a brilliant Potions Master, after all. Can the taste be improved upon without compromising the effectiveness? If so, think of all the hungry and now orphaned young children that it could keep alive."

It was the longest statement, and the most consecutive coherent words, that Severus Snape or Neville Longbottom had ever heard spill out of Loony Lovegood's mouth at one time. Ever.

Neville looked to be pleased as punch at her implied insult to the Professor.

Severus felt his nostrils quiver in his indignation that this mere slip of a chit, one that he'd earlier actually been pitying, should even dare to criticize one of his better inventions.

It'd been on the market for years now and had done quite well for him financially, thank you very much, despite it's truly awful flavor.

In fact, if not for **his** nutrition potion, several long-term-care patients at St. Mungo's (Longbottom's parents among them) would have long since starved themselves to death.

"I'm sorry sir. I didn't mean to seem rude or ungrateful," Luna softly said with downcast eyes.

Severus gave a brusque nod of acknowledgment at the girl's apology, and turned his gaze towards Ginny as he forgave Luna with a simple change of subject.

"How has Miss Weasley been these past few days? Has she shown any signs of awareness at all?" he asked Luna, his deep baritone warming with concern for the only surviving member of the Weasley clan.

At least he assumed her to be the only surviving member; neither George nor Bill Weasley's bodies had ever been found.

Maybe they'd somehow managed to escape during all the confusion of the final battle and the great surrender; Severus had no way of knowing for certain.

Lately it had seemed too much to hope for, that somehow the Light still had a few warriors left alive; far more likely that they'd simply ended up as werewolf food.

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Those horrible creatures had been sent out among the scavengers ordered with the cleaning up and removal of the dead from the battlefield.

They'd eaten and eaten, regurgitated whole chunks of flesh clearly recognizable as human, and then greedily consumed it again; like dogs, they'd turned to their own vomit.

It had even sickened Voldemort himself.

The Dark Lord had personally 'Avada'd a score of the obscenely evil creatures when he'd seen it with his own eyes. He had then sent out every last one of his junior Death Eaters on burial details instead.

He'd ordered a proper burial for all of the fallen dead, Death Eater and enemy alike.

Every deceased person was duly recorded with the Ministry, and their respective graves all had simple markers so that their survivors had an actual place to come and mourn their lost loved ones.

Voldemort really did have a huge amount of respect and care for all things magical, even the magical dead. Besides, the properly buried dead usually didn't walk or haunt the living.

It was good to 'nip that causality in the bud' (so to speak) and it gave his youngest Death Eaters an outlet to usefully burn off some of the adrenalin still pumping them up from the battle.

When they'd finished, they'd be too tired to be concerned about dipping their dicks anywhere except in their exhausted wetdreams.

Voldemort was pleased.

Severus had been too fatigued and still too weak from Nagini's attack to ponder it through right now. However, he had made a quick mental note to put the memory of these odd actions of the Dark Lord's into his Pensive.

He'd take them out and view them privately at a later date, with a clearer head.

Something seemed **different** about the Dark Lord since Potter's death; maybe it was just relief; perhaps it was the Master's form of rejoicing.

Maybe it was only his imagination.

Maybe it was simply wishful thinking.

Maybe . . . maybe it was something else entirely; something that he was afraid to allow himself to even begin to believe in.

Miracles were such rare creatures in Severus Snape's life.

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"No sir," Luna's soft sing-song voice brought him back to his surroundings with a jerk. "She's been just the same since her mother's death; she even sleeps with her eyes open, I think. It seems as if she's retreated so deeply into herself that she simply can't find her way back out."

Severus nodded his understanding, and focused all of his thoughts inward on various obscure and arcane potions and spells used to treat mental illnesses.

Off hand, he could find nothing in his extensive repertoire of knowledge to combat this particular thing; loss of the love and security of her family.

If only it were as simple as a lost love; there were at least twelve potions for that, she just would never be able to remember the person anymore.

That is exactly why Severus Snape had never availed himself of that particular form of sweet oblivion.

He'd been unwilling to give up the only truly happy memories from his childhood; his memories of Lily Evans.

Even with an inherited mental instability, two simple (but **darkest **of the dark arts) draughts could fix that right up, although it always costed another their sanity in return.

Just look at Bellatrix. She'd not only been quite beautiful but also brilliantly intelligent, and extremely talented in Potions herself, once upon a time.

Bellatrix Black LeStrange truly idolized her family, but she'd never had any children of her own. The wizarding world in general had thought her unable.

Bella loved her sister and new-born nephew with all of her heart. She doted on the infant as if he were her own. Draco had been diagnosed as a hopelessly autistic schizophrenic child at age three.

Bella had brewed a dark healing potion and fed it to the child over the course of a whole lunar cycle, loosing a bit more of herself each night.

Draco had never shown any further signs of the Black madness because of his aunt's sacrifice.

He'd eventually matured to become a bright and gifted young wizard solely thanks to her, and Bella had never once complained of the personal cost to herself. Now the boy was dead.

That was the only real problem with using dark magicks; there was always a terrible price to be paid all around.

Far better to simply be patient, give Miss Weasley good basic supportive care, and hope that (in time) the girl healed on her own.

He nodded his dark head again; this time in silent agreement with himself.

When his black eyes met Luna's soft dove-grey gaze, she smiled and nodded herself . . . just as if she'd been following his every thought to it's conclusion right along with him.

It was quite unnerving to Severus Snape, Master of Occlumency, to say the least. He'd never even felt her trying to touch his mind, she'd done it so gently.

Perhaps the chit **would** be able to survive the Dark Lord after all.

Luna smiled serenely, blushed, and slowly nodded her pale-haired head. Her gentle eyes held the wisdom of the ages as she met his ebony stare.

A flair of soul-deep recognition resounded within the dark wizard.

This child held Eildarvitch blood within her; of that fact, he had no doubt. The bloodline always called to others who also held it; Severus had inherited his own Eildarvitch blood from his mother, Eileen Prince.

His Eildarvitch blood was the very reason why** he** was so gifted in Occlumency and Legilimency himself. It was also the reason that he could perform wandless magicks; The Eildar's had had their powers before wands had ever been invented to channel magic through.

Like the Muggles always said, "It takes one to know one."

How Severus had never before 'picked up' on that fact about this child was an absolute mystery to him; probably because he'd mostly ignored little Loony Lovegood whenever it had been possible.

Most people did, except for those who mocked or misused her for their own amusement and feelings of superiority.

Harry Potter had been her very first **real** friend; the very first one to really "see" Luna and her talents and gentle spirit.

They were both marked by tragedy, and were both different from their classmates through no fault of their own; outsiders looking in, so to speak.

They'd struck up a friendship of sorts; but unbeknownst to Harry, she'd fallen in love with him.

Unlike Ginny Weasley (who had fallen in 'crush' with the Boy-Who-Lived, and the **idea** of being in love with the hero who'd so valiantly rescued her from the Chamber of Secrets), Luna had truly fallen for 'just Harry'; not the hero everyone else wanted him to be.

She'd never let it be known by so much as a single word or gesture; he'd had another destiny apart from her, but her heart simply wouldn't listen to her head at the time.

Now Harry's body lay at rest beside his mother and father in the simple but rundown cemetery in Godric's Hollow.

Voldemort himself had given the orders concerning the disposition of Harry's mortal remains, to the utter amazement of all of his supporters.

To Luna, it was merely one more reason to begin to think well of the Dark Lord. She was a Ravenclaw, after all, and had full-knowledge that history was written by the victors not the defeated.

Perhaps what everyone had been saying about He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named all along had not been entirely accurate.

Perhaps they'd exaggerated and concentrated on all of the evil deeds, and had omitted the good things about him; even if there were only a few redeeming points left in the man.

Perhaps she was only blowing smoke up her own arse to keep the fear at bay; she'd clearly seen **exactly **what was worrying the dark wizard before her concerning her fate.

And it had truly frightened her.

**End Chapter 8**

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**A/A/N: sorry for the delay, y'all. Just realized how long-winded I'd gotten. Don't worry--Luna is going to be right back in the next chapter. I just needed a break.**

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	9. Chapter 9

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**A/N: same drill, people; i'm not JK . . . yada, yada, yawn! so very sorry for the delay; hit a bit of a snag but it's over now, so here we go again!** _--snickers--_

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**Earlier in our tale:**

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_(Severus Snape:)_

"My Lord, there is a certain power in a virgin's blood for a wizard as a Potions ingredient, and a certain power as a **man** in being your witch's first lover."

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_(Lord Voldemort:)_

"Good; that is good then. Lucius will bring the license and perform the ceremony as Minister of Magic, and you will attend to anything my Consort-to-be requires. You will make certain she is agreeable to this Severus; do **not** disappoint me," Voldemort sternly ended.

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Severus closed his jet-black eyes for a moment and regretfully sighed.

This would simply have to be one more black sin to stain his already ink-dark soul . . . to provide a living virgin sacrifice to this demon that was his Master.

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_(Luna Lovegood:)_

Perhaps she was only blowing smoke up her own arse to keep the fear at bay; she'd clearly seen exactly what was worrying the dark wizard before her concerning her fate.

And it had **truly** frightened her.

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_is everybody back up-to-speed now? if so, here we go--snickers! (the author)_

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**Neville Meets Inevitable**

Neville Longbottom looked back-and-forth between the former Headmaster and the young seriously mental witch that he'd fought along side of in Dumbledore's Army, just as if he'd been watching a Muggle tennis match.

Neville swallowed hard; his whole world was upside down, and now he didn't know what to believe in anymore.

It seemed to him like the other two were communicating without speech.

Neville didn't know if there were even such things as words in the silent language the two of them were currently using; Harry'd once told him a little bit about his Occlumency lessons.

He knew that Snape could go inside your mind just like it was an open book. Harry had always been very specific about not making eye-contact with Snape when you wanted to hide something from him.

The dark Potions Master only needed the briefest of seconds in which to invade and trample down all of your thoughts.

Neville's thoughts were already quite thoroughly squashed just now, thank you very much.

He had no desire for Snape to even begin to guess at the amount of suppressed fury that truly raged inside of him.

If the Potions Master (and thus Voldemort) ever learned of it, it would be his death sentence for certain.

Neville Longbottom had made up his mind; one day **he** was going to kill Voldemort.

He'd just play along like a good little stupid Gryffindor until that day, and silently store up more and more rage to fuel his Killing Curse. Like Bellatrix had said to Harry once long ago, "you have to **mean** it for it to work".

When the time finally came for him to cast the Unforgivable, Neville Longbottom would be certain that he **meant** it with every fiber of his being.

Wizards lived a long, long lifespan; he had scores of years in which to plan and infiltrate and practice.

Lots and lots of practice; just as Harry had taught all of them in their secret DA training when that sadistic bitch, Umbridge, had taken over Hogwarts.

"Practice will make you perfect, Neville. Just concentrate and focus," Harry had encouraged him again and again.

The time would come one day to make Harry proud. Neville vowed it to everyone that Voldemort had ever harmed and killed in his long evil lifetime; including the late Harry Potter himself.

It was the loud rumbling growl of Ginny Weasley's hungry stomach that finally pulled Neville back from the dark place his mind and soul had went.

It gave him something and someone else to focus his attention on, and immediately pulled Neville back to right now in the present.

Neville Longbottom stood and walked over to the Potion Master's desk and picked up the last cup of nutrition potion from the tray. He carried it back over to where Ginny sat, and attempted to get her to sip from the cup.

"Come on Ginny. You've got to drink this; you need it. Yes, I know that it tastes bad, but it'll make you strong again," he coaxed the traumatized redhaired girl.

The potion that might keep her alive simply dribbled down her chin; she wouldn't (or couldn't) open her lips to swallow it for Neville.

He tried again, with the same messy results.

Okay, then. Neville would have to have help with this; he had no idea how to accomplish feeding Ginny without it.

Snape could hex his balls off later for interrupting them. Right now, Ginny Weasley's needs were more important than whatever he was learning from Luna or vice-versa.

Like Loony Lovegood could really tell Snape anything that he didn't already know in spades!

Neville loudly cleared his throat; **that **got both the wizard and witch's attention.

"A little help here, please sir," he said, indicating the thick messy glops of brownish-green potion drooling down Ginny's chin and staining her chest with a dip of his head.

Severus stood and walked around his desk. He drew his wand. Neville sucked his breath in with a sharp inhalation and closed his eyes.

Neville simply braced himself for the 'Crucio' that was definitely about to hit him.

"Imperio," Severus softly said; he cast the Curse with only the minimum amount of foolish wand waving necessary.

Ginny's body stiffened to attention.

Severus then ordered, "Take the cup from Mister Longbottom and drink every drop, Miss Weasley."

A single crystal teardrop formed on Ginny's pale auburn eyelashes, to slowly trickle down her pallid left cheek, but her hand obediently reached for and took the cup.

Her body hesitated for the briefest of moments, but still it raised the cup to her lips and she consumed the potion without a single complaint or grimace.

Neville reached out, carefully extracted the cup from Ginny's nerveless fingers, and whispered, "How'd you do that, sir?"

Severus wiped the drooled excess potion from the statue-still girl's face with a clean white napkin he'd conjured up.

Assuming his 'teaching voice' and stance, he answered Neville's question with one of his own, "Did you ever wonder why the 'Imperious' curse is an Unforgivable, Mister Longbottom?"

"It by-passes the brain of an individual, and controls the living body as an automaton; making only the body do what ever it is commanded. The person might be fully cognizant and fighting with every fiber of their being inside of their mind, but they cannot stop their body's actions. In effect, it strips the person of their freewill. That is why it is Unforgivable; no human being should ever be denied the right to choose their actions for themselves."

Neville slowly nodded his head in complete understanding, and swallowed hard.

_Merlin's Balls!_ Professor Severus Snape was actually conversing with him, just as if he were his equal.

Surely the world would be ending any moment now! Oh, that's right; it already had.

Perhaps it wouldn't be so bad after all; living with and learning from Snape. The Dark Lord had appointed Snape to be his Mentor and Guardian only a few hours ago when Neville had been summoned for his judgement.

He'd been granted a single year's grace period in which to conform, and become a Death Eater himself, instead of being killed immediately. It was strictly because of Snape's intercession on his behalf when the side of Light had fallen.

At the time, Neville would've preferred a quick 'Avada' to having to live with and obey his former Headmaster and personal Boggart.

Now it was rapidly becoming apparent to Neville that Severus Snape might also simply be a **man;** a fellow wizard with vast amounts of knowledge to share, and not simply an authority figure to fear.

It had been inevitable for all of the young survivors; to have to truly 'grow up'.

That was Neville Longbottom's first step into true adulthood; finally seeing (and accepting) another human being simply for what they are and not what you'd like for, or feared, them to be.

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**The Master Takes a Wife**

Luna began to gracefully glide around Severus' private office, humming her obscure little tune, pausing here and there to regretfully gaze into another jar and sadly shake her pale-haired head.

She already knew what the Professor was explaining to Neville; there was really nothing new being said on the subject to learn, so she 'tuned' it out.

Luna had researched it in the Restricted Section of Hogwarts library after Mad-Eye Moody had demonstrated the Three Unforgivables on a spider in her DADA classroom during her Fourth Year.

She was a Ravenclaw; to her very core Luna Lovegood understood that Knowledge **was** power.

Had she not have chosen to only concentrate and excel on the subjects that truly interested her, she'd have surpassed even Hermione Granger's scores.

That was one of the reasons that Luna Lovegood and Hermione Granger had established their tentative friendship two years ago.

Both of them were extremely bright witches (each in their own way), very gifted, thought the world of their friend Harry, and loved researching obscure subjects for hours and hours in the library.

Another reason was that both girls actually revered the books themselves; the texture of their intricately tooled leather bindings, the smooth feel of the ancient parchment pages beneath their loving fingertips, the still-rich smell of the ink with which they were scribed, and the beautiful, archaic, illuminations in the borders.

Sometimes the intricate and delicate drawings took up entire pages, and one could almost tell their meaning without even bothering to read the text.

Not only were the books a source of great knowledge, they were also true works of art; simply things of beauty in their own right.

Right now Luna wished that she'd done as Padma and Parvatti Patil had done and had used her passes into the Restricted Section to study the thin selection of sexually explicit books stored there.

They'd been giving 'underground sex-ed classes' to the other interested girls using an ancient original copy of "The Kama Sutra", complete with wizarding moving pictures, amid much silly giggling and a certain degree of disgust from some of the more prudish girls.

Luna wasn't a prude, and knew the basics of sexual intercourse; her father had given her "the Talk" when she'd turned thirteen and had begun her menstrual cycle.

It had just been one of those subjects that hadn't fascinated the young Ravenclaw witch at the time.

Luna had covered her embarrassment by swiftly changing the subject with another typical 'Loony' off-the-wall statement and then had skipped right on out of the library, leaving the Patel twins to snicker and mock her behind her back.

That didn't bother Luna in the slightest. She was used to it.

Luna thought that perhaps if she could just study the subject for a few hours, it might not seem so intimidating.

She paused in her wandering to wonder if perhaps the Great Library had survived; most likely not, if He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named was planning on re-writing history.

Usually, one of the first thing that all tyrants did was to burn the books and records of the former regime in an effort to stamp out the old knowledge, in order to replace it with indoctrination more sympathetic to their own particular cause.

Luna softly sighed, and glanced back at the two dark haired wizards, trying to gauge whether or not their conversation was finished.

It was so rude to interrupt, but she needed answers and help right **now.**

She'd seen certain . . . images . . . in Severus' mind when attempting to see what was in store for her. They'd definitely shocked her; the lasciviousness of some of the acts had even sickened her.

She'd panicked and had hurriedly left that secret place in his mind; in doing so he'd felt her prescence there, within his consciousness.

But Luna believed that hadn't been such a bad thing after all. They had instantly recognized the other as what they truly were; kindred.

Perhaps she **could **talk to Severus about these worries, but not in front of Neville.

The young Gryffindor wizard would probably shit kittens if he found out that she was to mate with the Dark Lord this night. He would never be able to see the 'big picture' of just why she was even willing to do so.

Her mother had been a Slytherin. Luna Lovegood had learnt the value of secretiveness and simply keeping some things to one's self at a very young age from her Mum, before that lady's untimely death.

Neville would want to save her, or something equally stupid if he knew, and Luna couldn't bear to have yet another friend's death on her conscience.

Luna Lovegood was already busily calculating the good and bad side of her present situation.

Their former world and life had now passed away.

She'd most definitely be in a better position to help her father and her few remaining friends as the Consort to the powerful, but dark, wizard currently ruling their world.

Her fate could have been worse.

She **could** have ended up as simply a broodmare given as a war-trophy to some anonymus Death Eater, popping out even more babies than Molly Weasley had done; who, in turn, would be doomed from their birth to become Death Eaters themselves one day.

Who knew exactly what the future held, really?

Perhaps she could even save the Dark Lord from himself one day.

_Yeah, right! When pink pigs fly! _

_Most likely she'd just bore that dark wizard with her inexperience; she'd never practiced any kind of 'petting' with the any of the boys, or even any real kissing before--except for that one time with Susan Bones--but she'd just been another girl, so Luna wasn't counting it as real experience. _

_Not the kind of experience she would need tonight, anyway._

_Sweet Circe, please don't let it be as nasty as it had looked. Or let it hurt that badly! _

_Voldemort wasn't likely to be patient with, or consoling of, virginal jitters._

And on that note, Luna softly asked, "Professor Snape?" At the swivel of his dark head back towards her, she continued, "Sir, would it be possible for me to have a bath and a clean change of clothes?"

Severus inclined his dark head, and led the way through the hidden door at the very back of his office into his private quarters.

Neville followed them, pulling an unresisting Ginny along with him. He'd been unwilling to let Luna go anywhere by herself with Snape.

Severus situated Luna with all the amenities she'd need to bathe in his private bath, including a relaxing healing potion to pour into her bathwater as well as a calming draught to swallow beforehand. He left her with a pot of healing salve to treat her minor injuries, and a long-lasting pain potion that tasted of bitter willow for after.

Leaving his personal house elf, Gristle, to help Luna and to attend to anything else she might require while he was absent, Severus cast a quick 'Scourgify' on Ginny Weasley to remove the grime and stench of her caked-on accumulation of body functions.

It really took twice; the first 'Scourgify' had taken care of removing the filth, but left the odor behind. The second 'Scourgify' was necessary for the removal of the stench that assailed his sensitive olfactory nerve endings.

He then grabbed Neville by his collar, and pulling Ginny in-between them to prevent 'splinching', he Apparated the three of them directly on to Malfoy Manor.

He turned his two young 'guests' over to Lucius Malfoy's personal house elf, Stubbs.

They'd both be in good hands; Stubbs was nothing, if not dependable. Lucius Malfoy would have had it no other way.

Being shown into a plush guest chamber, instead of a dank holding cell in Malfoy's cellars, was an illuminating experience for young Longbottom.

_'So this is how the other half lives!' _thought Neville, as he prepared to take a long, hot, shower of his very own in a spacious and luxurious private bathroom, prior to applying the healing salves and potions that Snape had left for him.

_'A wizard could really get used to this.'_

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Severus reappeared inside his private dungeon chambers with a dulled clap of Apparition, only to have to wait nearly half an hour for Luna to emerge from her soak and begin dressing for her wedding.

He used his time wisely by gathering together all of the potions, salves, and unguents the young witch might need for what she'd be enduring later that night.

Severus hesitated as he fingered a bottle of lust potion, but he was not thinking of Voldemort as he did so; the Dark Lord wouldn't need it.

The Potions Master was thinking that just a single drop of it slipped into the virgin's goblet when toasting her marriage at the wedding feast would insure the girl's eager participation in her wedding night.

Severus silently begged her forgiveness, and pocketed the vial.

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The Great Hall had been Transfigured into a whitely glowing Grecian temple; incense burned in a dozen golden magically suspended braisers, and a full moon shone brightly in the midst of a starry midnight-blue sky in the enchanted ceiling above.

Flowers were everywhere, releasing their various heady fragrances into the mix.

Surprisingly, Bellatrix LeStrange had been selected by the Dark Lord to provide the decorations for the ceremony, and had amazingly outdone herself.

It was tasteful, beautiful, and elegantly simple; every young witch's dream of exactly how her wedding should be.

When Luna Lovegood had entered the Great Hall on Severus' arm, she had been overwhelmed. A quickly silenced sob escaped her throat, and silent tears streamed down her ghostly pale cheeks.

As the first strains of simple Celtic harp music filled the air, they began their walk up to the temple's altar standing where the dais normally was.

Waiting there for them stood Lucius Malfoy, prepared to perform the ceremony as Minister of Magic, and her serpentine bridegroom . . . Lord Voldemort.

Luna had asked Severus to give her away as her true kinsman. He gently squeezed the slender little hand that had clutched down on his arm with nervous bruising force, at this, the point-of-no-return.

Her steps never faltered; her sing-song voice had clearly and firmly repeated the bond-vows required to tie her for life to the monster that was the Dark Lord.

The fey little witch was magnificent to Severus Snape at that moment; and his own black eyes had suspiciously misted over a bit as he watched the ceremony unfurl.

If he could have, when Lucius had asked for reasons why they should not be joined, he would have shouted a thousand reasons why.

As it stood, Severus Snape remained quiet and simply allowed it to happen.

There was truly nothing else he could have done.

Voldemort would have simply 'Avada'd him, and still would have taken the girl.

Severus prayed that one day she'd forgive him, or kill him; and at this moment in his self-hatred, he could have cared less which one it would be.

**End Chapter 9**

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**A/A/N: MMmm-kay! We're leaving Luna's de-flowering by Voldemort to the imagination. (I haven't decided yet whether to make it very GOOD, or VERY baaaaddd!) **_**--**__snickers__**--**_

**Hermione has been waiting long enough in the Dark Lord's audience chamber; we'll be getting back to her and Severus soon. (after a brief check-in on Voldemort's reaction to his wedding, and the opinions of Harry and little Tommy, of course!)**

**Besides; just between me, you, and the wall, the girls will be engaging in "girl-talk" at a later date. Comparing "notes" on their respective partner's "skills". **_**--**__snickers__**--**_

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	10. Chapter 10

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**A/N: i am not JO! **_(a single glance at my bank-balance will prove it, she sadly sighs)_

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**Chapter 10**

Lord Voldemort hadn't anticipated the strange burning sensation he suddenly felt in his chest as the first strains of simple Celtic harp music had begun, and the white-and-silver robed vision that was the young witch that he was claiming as his own slowly approached where he stood waiting with Lucius.

The Dark Lord had to swallow down a completely unexpected lump of nervousness in his throat. She was so **innocent, **so beautiful; he hadn't anticipated that either.

He'd been so busy with the affairs of state these past few days that the young witch's looks had faded into the background of his mind.

The memory of the reality of the girl had faded somewhat, and he'd simply carried on as he'd planned in taking her to be his Consort.

When Severus had placed the girl's fragile hand into his own, and gave his response about freely giving her to him, Voldemort suddenly realized just how young, and just how tiny, the young witch was in relation to his own age and height.

Her silvery tears were, he hoped, of happiness.

_Not bloody fucking likely! No doubt she was scared completely shitless about the situation that he'd forced her into. Would she really have come to him, had he not ordered Severus to make it so? There was no telling just what kind of potions she'd been fed simply to get her here. _

For the very first time in his long evil lifetime, the Dark Lord suddenly felt the weight of the world and the responsibility for the care and custody of another living human being descend upon his broad shoulders.

He firmly repeated the bond-vows that the girl had so clearly and firmly spoken in her turn.

The ceremony seemed to be over almost before it had begun; tables suddenly appeared loaded with the wedding feast, and his guests began to take their seats.

As usual, Severus was seated to his left side; only this time there was a seat between them.

It held the newly-married former Luna Lovegood.

When she reached for her goblet, Severus placed his hand over the top of it and leaned forward to speak directly to Voldemort, "If I may, my Lord?"

At the regal inclination of the hairless, snake-like head, Severus picked up her goblet and took a long swallow.

He held the sweet wine in his mouth for a moment, tasting the various flavors assailing his palate.

Voldemort closely observed his every reaction with an unexpected tenseness. It had never even occurred to him to suspect the poisoning of his bride.

It boosted the Potions Master's worth to Voldemort ten-fold that he'd been so concerned for his bride's welfare.

When Severus had finally swallowed, and nodded his dark head that it was safe, Voldemort let out a breath that he hadn't even realized he was holding. Lucius, sitting on his right, asked him a question; his attention relaxed and turned away from the Potions Master.

Severus took the few seconds of opportunity to slip a single drop of a very special potion into Luna's goblet. He'd ask her forgiveness later, perhaps.

She gave him a long steady look from her knowing dove-grey eyes, and arched a quizzitive pale eyebrow at him.

_Merlin's Balls! He was SO busted; caught red-handed in the very act. Damn. Had it been so long since he'd been a spy that he'd lost his touch? If the chit said a word about it, despite the Dark Lord owing him a life debt, he'd be likely kill him anyway._

Luna didn't say a word.

When Lucius raised his goblet and prepared to give his toast to the newlyweds, she simply 'accidentally' knocked her goblet over spilling all of it's contents onto the table while reaching for it.

"Oh dear! I'm so sorry, sir," she said to Voldemort, with a faint blush tinting her pale cheeks, when his head had swivelled her way to stare at her in consternation.

"No matter, my dear. It must just be bridal jitters," he'd softly replied, vanishing the spilled wine with a single gesture of his long fingered hand.

"More wine for my bride!" he ordered with a snap of his long fingers, and several house elves jumped to do his bidding.

Voldemort, himself, tasted her wine first; it was perfect. She gently smiled at him, and quietly said, "Thank you, sir."

Luna lifted her goblet when Lucius pronounced his toast, wishing them long life, good health, and prosperity.

She drank down a long swallow of the cool sweet wine and smiled into the monster's face that was now her husband; truly for better or worse.

She did not fail to notice that Lucius Malfoy hadn't wished them happiness.

That was perfectly alright with Luna; she hadn't expected to ever be happy anyway. Such was the curse of being Eildarvitch-heritaged; one rarely ended up with an easy life, or had very much happiness within it.

She had the examples of both her mother and the Professor to draw from. She'd never expected her fate to be any different.

As the feast was coming to it's conclusion, and after cutting the cake, Luna whispered to her bridegroom, "Sir? May I ask to be taken to our chambers? I'd like to have a soak and a bit of time to ready myself."

Voldemort was touched that his beautiful bride was shy, and wished to prepare herself for him in private. The time for shared baths would come later one day after she'd been endoctrinated in the carnal delights, but this was her wedding night.

It was special; he silently vowed to himself to continue to make it so.

Voldemort glanced around the room. There she was. With a single finger he summoned Bella to their side.

"Yes, my Lord?" Bellatrix LeStrange fawned before him; she'd already looked the weak, pale, little chit over.

_'She'll never last,' _Bella thought to herself. _'He'll be summoning me to lie with him once again before this week's out, just as soon as the shiny wears off of his new little toy.'_

"My most loyal Bella. I wish you to safely escort my bride to my chambers and provide her with what ever she desires to ready herself. You'll then return here for the awarding ceremony. Think about what you want, Bella. You've earned it; as long as it doesn't interfere with my own plans, it's yours," Voldemort politely said, but no one (especially Luna) thought for a single moment that it was anything but an order to be obeyed.

The Dark Lord politely stood up when his new wife did. His loyal inner circle had all also respectfully risen to their feet and bowed to her as their new Dark Lady stood up and received their Master's chaste kiss on her forehead, before leaving the room with Bellatrix LeStrange.

All except Crabbe; he'd drank too freely of the excellent wine that had came from Albus Dumbledore's private cellar, and had chewed several bites of the opium-laced candy he always kept on him for enticing small children with.

Voldemort did not fail to notice this slight to his new bride; to insult her was to insult **him.**

The Dark Lord's furious red gaze fell onto his loyal advisor, Severus Snape.

A single look of complete understanding passed between lord and servant; Crabbe had just signed his own death warrant, and Severus was to be allowed the privilege of being his executioner.

Severus smiled a grim smile at his Master. This was going to be **so** sweet, and with the Master's permission, of all things!

Oh, he'd make it look like the freak accident that it needed to look like in order to preserve appearances alright.

But he'd finally get to show Crabbe exactly what each and every one of his young victims had felt as he'd tortured and sodomized them and, with his knowledge of healing potions, he would feel it for a long, long, time indeed before the dark Potions Master eventually let the other wizard die.

Severus had already decided that the very first thing that he was going to do to Crabbe would be to cut out the sadistic pedophile's tongue so that he couldn't scream. Next he would tether him in his very own torture chamber, where the blood of countless innocents still stained the stinking stone floors and see how he liked white-hot metal caressing his body.

Severus was as giddy as a schoolboy at the thoughts of what all he was going to do to Crabbe.

If Lucius hadn't slapped him hard on his back at just that moment, he'd never have heard Voldemort order young Nott to fetch Hermione Granger to the audience chamber.

Or have had the sense to read young Nott's thoughts concerning the girl in question.

Dear gods! Hermione was about to be raped at the final hour, after he'd so carefully machinated the Dark Lord to prevent that very fate for her.

There was no way Voldemort would allow him to leave the audience chamber; not now, with the awarding ceremony about to begin.

What could he possibly . . . wait a minute . . . Rabastan still owed him a favor for clearing up a particularly nasty wizarding STD for him.

It had been a secret just between the two of them; one that Voldemort was, as yet, still unaware of.

The Dark Lord expected all of his Death Eaters to be disease-free at all times; for he, himself, often participated in the Dark Revels sharing whores and willing young males alike with them.

Severus swiftly crossed over to Rabastan's side and said, "Walk with me, Rabastan."

Voldemort silently observed the two men's actions, but thought little of it, as it most likely concerned Crabbe's death sentence and he had to appear ignorant of that.

Within the next two minutes, Rabastan LeStrange had left out on some errand and Severus was back securely seated at his Master's left hand on the dais.

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_"Friend? FRIEND! Where are you? Please help me, friend . . . I can't do this. Friend, I need you!"_

Harry stood up, and calmly went to help the fragile bit that still remained of Voldemort's humanity; if there was any way that he possibly could.

The white mists swirled around him once more, and suddenly there he was back in the dank chamber where the very last shred of Voldemort's humanity dwelt.

"FRIEND! There you are! Where did you go? You've been gone so long. I was afraid you wouldn't come back," the little dark haired, blue-eyed, child snivelled. He rubbed a scabby arm across his face, smearing the tears and snot of his panic off onto it.

Harry was taken a bit aback; the child wasn't simply a bloody raw bit of flesh any longer.

Now he was covered here and there with large patches of thick runny scabs, although still no skin that Harry could see or recognize as such.

It had to be in an unimaginable amount of pain.

"Hello, little one," Harry gently replied to the small wounded boy with a smile. "I'm always near you even when you can't see me. All you have to do is call me, and if it's at all possible I'll come to you every time."

"Where?" it suspiciously querried. "If you're always near me, why can't I see you? Why don't you talk to me? I talk to you all of the time, but you never answer me back."

Harry suddenly felt older than his years; what to reply?

The wrong answer right now might mean the difference between redemption and destruction for the last bit of humanity still residing within the Dark Lord.

Is this how Albus had felt everytime he'd asked his own unanswerable questions as a boy growing up? Merlin, what a load for anyone to have to bear!

Dumbledore had always answered him so mysteriously all of the time that, as a child, Harry had thought him to be all-powerful and all-knowing; sort of like a god.

Remembering the pain and disillusionment of discovering the truth about the old wizard's simply being a flawed human, Harry decided to always tell it the truth. He amended that thought allowing that some mystery would be okay.

However if he truly didn't know the answer to anything the child asked, he'd admit to it instantly.

Harry opened his mouth to tell the child about the Station, but nothing would come out. He tried again, with the very same results.

A coolness came over him. Harry understood now.

Mortals could never know definitely for sure about the survival of their soul. They would either trust in their own continuance, or not. Free will meant the freedom to even choose wrongly.

Just like magick, some things are meant from the foundations of the very Universe to be taken on faith; because faith and love were truly mortal man's strongest magicks.

Harry opened his mouth again and spoke, "I stay in a misty place because that's where I belong right now for trying to harm you that time. I didn't know that you were here then, or I'd never have done that."

There. That sounded positively Dumbledorish enough to satisfy the child, and every word was the absolute truth.

The scrap of raw, scabby, humanity snivelled one last time, and Harry could see that it was digesting what he'd just answered. It slowly nodded, then paused to look him directly in the eye.

"Okay. But why don't you talk to me when I talk to you?" it asked again, seeking clarification.

_Bloody hell! Now what was he supposed to say? Why DIDN'T he hear it all of the time if they were truly soul-bound like Ron had thought? _

Harry decided to again tell it the truth, "I think that I must sleep sometimes. Maybe that's why I only hear you when you really, really, need me."

The child tilted it's head to the side as it thought that over; Harry smiled at the action. It rather reminded him of an inquizzitive little ugly puppy.

"Okay, then. I guess that's alright, as long as you do come when I really need you," it finally answered.

Harry looked somber for a long moment, then replied, "I'll always **try** to come to you when you need me, but sometime in the future that may no longer be possible. One day, I might have to move on. But until then I promise to always come when you call, and even if I have to move on I'll always remain your friend. You have my word."

No one was more shocked than Harry Potter when he felt the magickal bind of a wizard's oath wash over them. He thought that part of his life had ended with his death; apparently not.

"What was THAT?" the little boy squeeked out in his sudden fright. "What did you DO?"

"That was a wizarding oath-bond. I've given you my word. Now that's a promise that I'll always have to keep," Harry again chose to tell the truth.

"Forever and ever?" it suspiciously asked.

Harry nodded and said, "Yes, my little friend. Forever and ever."

The little scabby boy slowly thought about it, and inched close enough to Harry to place his tiny oozing hand trustingly into the older wizard's grip.

Then it spoke, "My friends call me Tommy, or they used to, back when I lived in an orphanage. I'm not sure what my name really is any more 'cause everyone calls me something different now, but you can call me Tommy if you want to."

Harry smiled.

"Hi, Tommy. My name used to be Harry. People called me by many names before, too. I know how it feels. You can call me Friend, or just call me Harry; whichever you'd rather."

It's little forehead wrinkled, cracking open two scabs across it, as he said, "I'll just call you Friend for right now. There's something about the name 'Harry' that makes me feel funny inside, but I can't remember why. Is that okay?"

Harry grinned even wider and simply nodded his unruly dark head to show that he understood, and that it was alright by him.

The two of them stood together quietly for several long moments, and then Harry asked it, "Why did you need me so badly this time?"

Tommy sighed, looked away from Harry in obvious embarrassment, and scuffed his raw toes against the slimy stones of his secret chamber inside of the Dark Lord's mind.

"He's going to do nasty wicked things to the pretty girl that can see me," he slowly replied in an anguished soft whisper, as he quietly confided in his only Friend.

**End of Chapter 10**

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**A/A/N: Well people, sometimes the best laid plans of mice and author's often go awry. **

**I felt this was running a bit long; I broke it in two. **

**The next chapter will be entitled "Luna's Wedding Night". Hard at work on it even as you're reading this. **_**--**__snickers__**--**_

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	11. Chapter 11

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**A/N: do i really **_**have**_** to? o.k. i'm still not and i don't own. y'all know the rest.**

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**Chapter 11**

"Friend? Can you stop him from doing it to her?" it whispered, raising hopeful sapphire blue eyes that were brimming with tears at the painful confession.

"What do you mean by a 'pretty girl can see you'?" Harry sharply asked.

Tommy cringed and whimpered, "Don't be mad at me, Friend. I don't know **how** she did it, but the pretty girl **saw** me once before. It was right after I met you that first time. You know, when you told me to listen to that powerful wizard and then left."

Harry drew in a deep calming breath.

Scaring the shit out of the scrap of Voldemort's humanity wouldn't accomplish anything other than to cause it to not listen to him or to call on him any more. Trust was a word that this child had never learnt. Love was another.

So Harry slowly nodded his unruly dark head and managed a weak smile, to let the child know that he wasn't really angry; he probably felt that enough from Voldemort.

"Go on. You can tell me what you know about it, and I'll try to figure it out," Harry gently encouraged with a more firm 'fake' smile in place.

"Are you **sure** you're not mad at me?" Tommy whined again, desperately seeking his only friend's approval.

"Of course I'm not mad at you, Tommy," Harry finally managed to say the name, and was amazed that it had passed his lips without him bursting out-loud in laughter.

How the powerful and all-mighty Lord Voldemort would rage if he only knew that his humanity was named Tommy!

Harry's smile became genuine, and little Tommy relaxed and smiled back at his friend.

"W-ww-well, see . . . this pretty girl looked at me when he took her wand. That's when he decided to do the nasty thing to her. He made the strong wizard get her for him. Should I still listen to him? Is he bad now, too?" Tommy asked through quivering lips.

He looked for all the world like he was about to cry.

Harry sucked in a sharp breath.

_Sweet Merlin, please don't let it be Hermione! _

His heart thumped painfully in his chest in his fear. What this about the dark Potions Master?

Had Severus truly turned to the Dark Side?

How long **had **he been stuck in the Station before Tommy had summoned him again?

"I don't know," Harry replied to the boy's questions, covering them all with that truthful blanket answer. "But I intend to find out. Do you know the pretty girl's name?"

"Yes," he brightly answered. "He dreams of it often. It's Lucy, or Luneicy. Something pretty like that. It gets mixed up in here sometimes."

Harry felt a sharp pain within his chest as his heart clinched again.

_Not Hermione then. But who . . . oh no!_

"Could her name be Luna?" he softly asked.

Tommy vigorously bobbed his head in his childish agreement.

"Damn," Harry whispered.

That single whispered naughty word froze Tommy's blood.

He was so frightened now that he had to struggle to get his breath back. He knew that the nasty wicked thing must be a bad thing; whenever HE did it, it made him tingle uncomfortably and caused 'creepy-crawly' feelings down **there. **It was like pain, but not like pain.

Tommy didn't like the weird feeling because HE did like it. And He liked it a **lot!**

It **had** to be a bad thing. Tommy was truly terrified, and he clutched at Harry's hand as if it were a lifeline.

"Will you stay with me?" Tommy whispered back.

"Yes," Harry firmly answered. "I won't leave you until I know what is really going on."

"Good."

That was Tommy's only reply.

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Bellatrix led Luna up towards the former Headmaster's Chambers. Luna softly sighed when she realized just where their destination would be.

Dumbledore had always singled her out for kindness and candy. He'd told her that she reminded him of his sister when she'd been a young girl.

His door was always open to her.

He saw what none of all of her other teachers, even her Head of House, had ever seen; the other girls always mocking her, being cruel in stealing her things and calling it a friendly prank, and that horrid nickname 'Loony'.

Dumbledore had seen the secret pain she'd felt inside at being so bullied, so mistreated, so utterly friendless from her very first year at Hogwarts.

It was a soul-deep pain that she'd covered up with her nonchalant humming and skipping; exploring the Dark Forest all alone for hours to visit the unicorns and thestrals because they didn't judge her for not 'fitting in'.

That peaceful alone-time had allowed her the time and distance to push the agony deep down inside so that her tears never fell in public. Her silent tears only came at night, in the privacy of her curtained bed, high in Rowena Ravenclaw's tower.

When Dumbledore had first started comparing her loneliness to Harry's, in the privacy of shared sherbert lemons and his cozy fireside, Luna suddenly realized that the Headmaster wasn't speaking aloud the words that she was hearing inside of her mind.

That was the first time that Luna Lovegood had unconsciously performed Legilimency.

She slowly began to think of Harry as her secret friend as she watched him being singled out and bullied even worse than herself during the Tri-wizard Tournament.

As she trained under his tutelage in the Room of Requirement as a member of Dumbledore's Army, Luna couldn't help but fall in love with the awkwardly shy, but powerful, Harry Potter.

His feelings for her Ravenclaw sister, Cho, were plainly obvious. Luna settled for Harry's friendship; his destiny didn't lie with her anyway.

How bizarre that the only place she'd ever been comforted and felt sheltered while a student here at Hogwarts was now to be the place of her ultimate degredation; the surrender of her maidenhead to He-who-was-now-her-husband.

_Fate is a cruel bitch and Destiny is her sister! If only it could be Harry coming to take me instead . . . _

"Well here we are, my pretty! What can I get for you?" Bellatrix' voice broke into her reverie.

Luna blinked. She looked blankly around the chamber. It was totally different now; maybe she could do this after all.

"Did you hear me? I asked you what can I get you; and make it quick, girl. Your husband grows impatient for me," Bellatrix added with a knowing smirk, thinking the stupid little chit wouldn't catch the double entendre.

The stupid little chit caught it just fine; Bellatrix was her husband's lover.

"I don't suppose you'd get me my wand would you?" she said, staring Bellatrix directly in the eye. At the sudden dropping open of Bella's jaw, Luna continued, "No, I suppose not."

She didn't skip.

Luna gracefully glided over to an intricately carved, but dainty, rosewood chair near the roaring fireplace and sat down like a queen would assume her throne.

Bella swallowed hard. There was something about this girl that was different. How had she missed it? There was **real** power here; inside of this tiny young witch.

Of course the Master would want her.

Bellatrix LeStrange respectfully bowed her head to the girl enthroned before her.

She became the very first of the Inner Circle to address Luna by her now proper title, "My Lady, please forgive me. May I be of service to you? May I fetch anything for your comfort? What do you desire?"

Bella's questions quickly spilled, almost one atop the other, from her blood-red lips in her sudden anxiousness to please the new Dark Lady.

Luna smiled.

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Harry looked out of the ruby windows of Voldemort's eyes and scanned the situation.

What in the world had they done to the Great Hall? They'd dolled it up like some weird Grecian temple. Is Lucius Malfoy acting as some kind of priest?

Dear gods! It's a wedding; Voldemort's marrying . . . Luna!

Harry paused for a moment as he had an epiphany of sorts; this wasn't the wizarding world that he remembered anymore.

This was Voldemort's world now.

Whomever had managed to survive the war would continue to do so by any means that they had to. Who was he to judge them?

At least Voldemort was marrying her first before he took her.

He could have made her his whore, or worse; she could've been passed around amongst a gang of horny Death Eaters until they'd quite literally fucked her to death.

He'd convince Tommy to protect and care for Luna to the best of his young ability.

That part should be easy enough; the boy already seemed to like her, and he thought that she could see him.

Harry sadly smiled. Maybe she **did** see Tommy inside of here; Luna had that special way of seeing beauty where no-one else could.

But to have to endure Voldemort's having sex with her!

Harry froze; he slowly turned to look back at the scabby little blue-eyed boy who'd cringed back into his usual corner. It couldn't possibly be more than nine years old.

It'd be an unwilling, frightened, forced participant in the act; no wonder he was terrified.

No matter what it'd had to endure before whatever power had sent him to help it, Harry wasn't about to let a child suffer through that again if he could help it.

Harry himself hadn't begun to be attracted to girls, or even to tentatively imagine what to do with them, before he'd developed his all-powerful first crush on Cho during his Fourth Year.

If only there was some kind of way he could take Tommy's place for this abomination, he'd gladly do so.

As Harry turned back around to go try to comfort the suffering little scrap of cowering humanity, he suddenly felt something hard and cool in his pants pocket.

He felt a frisson of deja vu slide down his spine as he remembered how he'd retrieved the Philosopher's Stone, and the very first time that he'd ever met Voldemort face-to-face as an eleven year old boy.

He very carefully reached into his pocket. His fingers wrapped around a small, cool, glass vial of some sort. When he withdrew it, he instantly recognized it for what it was.

Sirius had provided him with enough of it during his Fifth Year, quite illegally of course, so that he could at least have a few peaceful night's sleep whenever he'd become too mentally exhausted to go on.

It'd been all that had helped him keep hold of his sanity while Voldemort had tortured his dreams and waking mind alike that year.

It was a tiny blue vial of Dreamless Sleep Draught; perhaps Tommy wouldn't have to be aware of what was to come after all.

Harry didn't dare question the where-for's or why-come's of where it had come from.

He simply accepted that it was real and that it was there, and silently thanked whatever or whomever had seen fit to be merciful to a child.

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**Luna's Wedding Night**

**What Voldemort found upon entering his chambers after the awarding ceremony:**

There was a small fire cozily burning in his fireplace; it smelt faintly of applewood and myrrh.

A blazingly white vision of pure beauty sat before it in the little carved rosewood chair that he'd personally selected for his new bride as a wedding gift.

He might be Lord Voldemort now, but he still had Tom Riddle's critical eye for spotting rare, beautiful, and valuable, antiques.

That chair had once belonged to Rowena Ravenclaw herself. It was fitting that it now belonged to another Ravenclaw; his own Dark Lady, just as Salazar and Rowena had been lovers.

Voldemort felt it when the breath left his body; his heart hammering strangely within his chest.

He'd had more pussy in his long lifetime than a cat-horder. What **was** it about this young witch, and his eager anticipation of taking her into his bed, that made him actually sweat and tremble within his skin like a virgin school-boy?

Voldemort allowed his eyes to drift slowly over the girl before him.

_Merlin's Balls! She's so beautiful; her pale hair nearly to her waist, I'll forbid her to ever cut it; the perfect alabaster complexion; and those dove-grey eyes that see so deeply inside of me, but still she does not flinch away in horror. The silk and lace of her lovely white gown covering, but revealing, just as a virgin's should be . . . and she's MINE . . . _

"Would you care for some champagne, sir? It was a present from Minister Malfoy, and I think it must be a very expensive, very good year," Luna softly chattered away, suddenly terrified beyond what even she had expected, in an attempt to buy herself some more time.

Voldemort smiled at her; Luna swallowed hard. He decided to allow her a few more moments to compose herself.

"Of course, my dear. Shall I pour?" he softly said. This was fine; he could do this. It'd been nearly forty years since he'd had to do it, but he still remembered how to seduce a virgin.

It had also been years since he'd attempted to allow another person to have at least semi-equal standing in his presence; but as his wife, he'd try for her. As his Consort, he owed it to her.

At least in private; in public it would never do.

In public he'd always be Lord Voldemort, sole and final lord and lawgiver; liege lord to over twenty thousand Death Eaters. In private, he could relax himself with and for her; and he could make it so very good for her in return for her obedience and loyalty.

Best make that plain to the girl even before the honeymoon had begun.

Voldemort popped the cork of a nearly two hundred year-old bottle of Dom, and silently filled two delicate crystal flutes. He passed one to his bride; the other he carried to the tall-backed black leather wing chair facing her, and sat down.

"To Luna; whose beauty rivals the Moon herself," he toasted the girl. They both drank. He deeply, her delicately; her very first taste of champagne tickling her nose and clinging sweetly to her palate. This was to be a night of firsts all around for Luna.

Luna stared into the bubbles racing to the top of the wine in her flute for a moment. She really didn't know **what **to call her husband, and felt like anything she chose would be the wrong thing.

Her lip suddenly quivered in her nervousness. She took another small sip of her champagne.

Voldemort stared at her in consternation. Has this girl never received a compliment before? Instead of thanking him prettily, as most witches would have done, she instead appeared ready to cry.

More gently than he'd tempered himself to do in years, Voldemort tentatively touched the girl's mind with his own. She gasped, and her lovely grey eyes jerked up from her glass to meet his own ruby eyes. "Sssh," he soothed her. "Let me see what is troubling you, my child."

Perhaps this was the easier way; she nodded her head and gave him entry to her mind.

It was the first entrance of Voldemort into her person of the night; and she could feel that he was trying to be gentle.

Legilimency was always painful if done by someone who was not Eildarvitch. Perhaps he'd decided to be just as gentle with her physical body. She could only hope.

In addition to the beautiful negligee that Bellatrix had provided for her, she'd also provided her with a frank witch-to-witch sex-talk about some very intimate details of Voldemort's preferences, and the messy pain she could expect to have to endure this first time.

Luna hadn't demanded that Bellatrix never service her husband again; but by simply being herself, Luna had quite accidentally made a friend of Bella.

The mad witch had taken it upon herself to volunteer to act as her Lady in Waiting and Protectress.

No one could have been more shocked at that turn of events than Luna herself.

"Stop. Stop that," Voldemort sternly said as he abruptly withdrew from her mind.

Luna looked into his eyes, his revealing then concealing his self-disgust; her own honestly puzzeled. "Stop what, sir?"

"Stop thinking that if you do or say the slightest thing wrong, I shall hurt you," he softly answered. "I will not lie to you about that honest quirk of nature. Yes. You will hurt, and I will be the source of your pain. It is unavoidable and a fact of life. However, after the pain will come much pleasure; this I promise you. Much pleasure indeed."

Silently, he passed her a handkerchief and she wiped her moist eyes and the single little drip from one nostril. They both picked up their glasses again and sipped the cool, delicious wine.

Wine that had cost enough galleons that the single bottle would have paid the tuition of four students for a year at Hogwarts. But, damn! It was excellant.

Lucius just earned a point up in his Master's esteem. He wasn't out of the woods yet; but if Malfoy kept this up, he might get there eventually. Eventually being the primary time-frame.

After their second glass, the Dark Lord stood up and extended his hand towards Luna.

"Shall we retire, my dear?"

Luna's face went even whiter than her negligee, but she set down her wine glass and accepted Voldemort's hand without flinching and allowed him to lead her into their bedchamber.

**to be continued**

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**A/A/N: okay. put down the rope and slowly back away. there will be no hanging from this tree today. simply a word-of-warning: the next chapter will contain MATURE ADULT CONTENT. Please skip it if you are not currently of legal age in your particular state/country; or have a dislike of lemons for any reason. signed, the author**

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	12. Chapter 12

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**A/N: i'm not. 'nuff said about that. CAUTION: This chapter is definitely rated "M" kiddies. You were warned. **_**--**__snickers__**--**_

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**Chapter Twelve**

**or The Night Continues:**

"Shall we retire, my dear?"

Luna's face went even whiter than her negligee, but she set down her wine glass and accepted Voldemort's hand without flinching and allowed him to lead her into their bedchamber.

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Voldemort's garnet gaze shifted around his bedchamber. Things were now different here and there.

Obviously his new bride had wasted no time in putting her own 'little touches' on it; claiming it as her abode as well. Ah well, at least his young witch had excellent taste.

He'd earlier noticed one or two new articles in the sitting area outside as well, but had made no comment as they'd been so very minor.

A few books, her crystal ball, and the odd picture or two.

In here real improvements had been made. Primarily the improvements were to his massive, canopied, four-posted bed.

It was time to show his appreciation.

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Luna had earlier made another request of Bellatrix; to be granted access to her personal house elf, Scratch, and thereby access to her dowry chest.

Bella had finally agreed to it, after much conversation, ending with Bella's swearing both witch and house elf to a wizarding oath to not attempt escape or harming the Master or the girl herself.

Bellatrix LeStrange had her own cause to commiserate with the new bride on this one point, witch-to-witch, and had felt truly justified in allowing the Dark Lady to have it.

Bella knew how important her own chest was to her, and to all witches in general. It'd be worth enduring a 'Crucio' or two, to maintain 'witch's honor' with the Dark Lady.

Luna's mother had started her chest when she'd been born; it was witch's tradition.

The wizarding world followed a strictly patriarchal bent. Witches were still legally considered chattel; a wizard's property, only a notch or two above slaves and house elves.

As such, all witches were under their father's control from birth until they'd turned fifty, or given into their husband's control upon their marriage until death claimed one or the other.

Widowhood was the only legal way for a witch to gain her freedom. The threat of being publicly flayed alive ensured that few witches ever took it upon themselves to hasten their husband's departure from the mortal coil.

Although, within the last hundred years or so, the lay-rules of what was socially acceptable and considered to be proper etiquette had changed somewhat.

The lay-rules had relaxed enough so that women could now live on their own without stigma, have their own careers (with their male guardian's permission), own personal property, and handle their own money; however the old laws were still active, still on the books, and were occasionally still acted upon.

Witches still did not have the right to vote for anything; much less the repeal of out-moded laws.

Their patriarchal guardian could quite legally take their wand, banish, or disinherit them, all on his whim.

The witches fought back the only way that they could; through the dowry chest that every female child received at her birth.

They were used to hold maternal family china and crystal, silver, linens, inherited or girlhood gifts of jewelry, and the money-gifts that no man could ever take away; money-gifts magically tied to the chest itself when it was created.

Dowry chests were individually goblin-made of impenetrable ironwood; as strong as Gringotts' vaults.

Ordinary wizarding magicks couldn't open or destroy them; they only obeyed their witch's touch.

The dowry chest meant financial independence, of a sorts, for those unlucky witches whose husbands refused to provide for their wives or any daughters they might have.

That was still legal also; to provide well for the sons of their marriage but, other than basic board and keep, give nothing except an education or an arranged marriage to their daughters.

Under Bellatrix' watchful eye, Luna had had Scratch fetch her dowry chest from her girlhood home. She'd then had him to completely redecorate the bedchamber from it's contents.

It had been comparatively easy using the exquisite velvets, brocades, laces, and silks that first her mother, then later her father, had tucked away for her just for a purpose like this during their frequent trips to Egypt, Morroco, Kyrgyzstan, India, and other beautiful far-away lands.

The fabrics were expensively soft, luscious to the hand, some sheer to the eye, and tastefully (if rather exotically) colored.

They were now luxuriously and evenly dispersed throughout the room; some as curtains here, some as pillows there, with several thick antique oriental carpets warmly and carelessly scattered across the cold stone floors.

The most impressive change had been to the massive fourposter carved-ebony bed that dominated the room.

Luna had rebelled at having to lose her virginity on the same sheets in which Voldemort had last bedded Bellatrix LeStrange.

Now spider-web delicate silver silken bedcurtains shielded, but revealed, the rich willow-green velvet coverlet spread across the massive bed. It was covered with intrically embrodiered and bejeweled silver serpents twisting in the eternal figure-eights representing infinity.

It had belonged to her mother.

Luna thought that she felt the nearness of her mother's spirit with her while using her mother's things.

She pulled her mother's strength into herself just like a little girl wanting her mum's comforting in the middle of a nightmare, and tried to keep herself calm.

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Luna stepped from her bath, leaving all of her little girl's tears and idle frightened thoughts to drain away with the used water. She toweled off, brushed her long pale smoke-coloured hair out to shiny perfection, and applied a dab of her mother's still sweet-smelling perfume behind her ears and on her wrists.

She slipped the gossamer silk and lace white confection of a nightgown over her pale head and smoothed it down in place over her petite, girlish, little frame. She added the matching negligee over it and stared at someone she didn't recognize.

Luna grimaced and poked out her tongue at her reflection, and softly sighed as she looked herself over in the huge mirror hanging in the bathroom.

She knew that she wasn't beautiful and had never aroused any male interest; no boy had ever asked her out.

Now Luna felt like an ignorant little girl playing 'dress-up' in her mum's things.

It would have to do. She was now a grown-up; a married woman. She only hoped that she didn't look as young and helpless as she felt.

Luna was resigned to her fate; she'd always known that her destiny lay with the Dark Lord, even if she had tried desperately to fight against it.

She wistfully sighed.

Her mother had been a Slytherin; her father a Ravenclaw.

They'd eventually managed to have an emotionally satisfying life together, despite it's having been an arranged marriage, prior to her mum's unfortunate demise in that potion's accident when she'd been a little girl of nine.

Perhaps someday in the distant future she too would know, if not ever love, then at least a comfortable companionship with her own Slytherin husband.

Even if he was Lord Voldemort.

She still allowed herself to hope. How odd.

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"Is everything to your satisfaction, milord?" Luna shyly whispered up at the horror who was now her husband.

Voldemort's gaze left the decor and focused more intently on his bride. As he stared at her, Luna shifted uncomfortably from foot-to-foot, averting her gaze in her nervousness.

He carefully replied in a falsely pleasant tone, "Lovely my dear; but might I ask how you've accomplished so much so quickly without a wand?"

Luna stared into his red eyes and answered him in simple honesty, "You ordered Bellatrix to see to anything I needed, milord. I wanted my personal house elf and my dowry chest. The rest is as you see it."

She ingenuously smiled back up at him, hoping that he approved of her changes in his private chambers.

He did; but he'd been speaking of the girl, not the room.

"Strange that given the chance you did not choose to escape," Voldemort suspiciously said, and he idly wondered whether 'Crucio' could possibly be considered foreplay.

Luna's eyebrow quizzically lifted as she timidly replied, "But why should I want to escape, milord? Where would I go? I am where I belong; beside you."

Voldemort eyes widened in his obvious disbelief. The chit had the audacity to lie to his face!

His hands slowly rose up to unlocked the silver serpent clasp that held his robes fastened at mid-chest; they slid sinuously down to become a puddle of black velvet around his ankles. He stepped out of them, closer to the girl before him.

"Do you still feel that you belong beside me?" Voldemort harshly asked her with a frown and a wave of one long-fingered hand indicating his nude hairless body.

It was the first time that Luna had ever seen a naked man.

She'd accidently stumbled across Harry and Ron skinny-dipping in the Black Lake once when she'd been hiding with the unicorns in the Forbidden Forest.

That brief preview of what male frontal nudity was from peeping through the undergrowth at a couple of Third Year boys certainly hadn't prepared her for **this** reality.

Now Luna understood exactly why Severus had been so worried about the internal injuries and pain he expected her to have tomorrow; the reason why his bridal gift of pain potions and healing unguents to her were currently secreted away in the bathroom.

A naked Lord Voldemort was impressive indeed. It was a shame that he had to cover his body in robes while in public; nude, he'd have been far more intimidating.

There wasn't a spare gram of fat anywhere on his physique. Instead, he was leanly covered in pure sinewy muscles; an Olympic runner's body. Except for his manhood.

When Luna had glanced at it, she'd been frightened out of her wits. Her husband was hung like a hippogriff!

She'd slammed her eyelids shut, swallowed hard, and re-opened them only to stare at it in horrified amazement; flaccid, it hung well-past the top of his thigh. If it only doubled in size when erect, it would hang mid-thigh on the man!

In her peripheral vision she saw two pale long-fingered hands reaching towards her like a Nosferatu.

Luna's shocked grey eyes jerked up to lock onto Voldemort's eyes; a paralyzed rabbit caught in a deadly serpent's mesmerizing red stare.

"It'll never fit," she whispered as her heart pounded painfully inside of her chest; virginal panic apparent in every syllable.

The corners of Voldemort's thin-lipped mouth curved lecherously up as he'd silently observed where her gaze had been fixated.

His long arms suddenly scooped Luna up, bridal-style, and he strode over to his bed to lay her down; his own body sensuously following it, covering her tiny frame with his lean, hard, weight.

"It'll fit. I'll make it," Voldemort answered her in a truthful growl, just before his lips crashed down, capturing her own innocent mouth.

He determinedly began to lay seige to his bride.

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Harry left the sleeping scabby little scrap that was Voldemort's humanity lying peacefully wrapped in his own jumper in it's usual corner.

He went to look out through Voldemort's red eyes at what was happening now.

Tommy had been right; things moved confusingly and differently in here. He couldn't have been more than several minutes, half-hour at the absolute most, comforting and coaxing the child into taking the potion.

It seemed that hours must have passed for the Dark Lord. There now appeared to be some kind of judgement going on for people that Harry knew to be Muggleborn.

A Fifth Year Gryffindor boy named Terry Gilliam was given to Rudolphus LeStrange, with no heed being paid at all to the boy's terrified screams until he was knocked unconscious.

Justin Finch-Fletchly was given to his gloatingly insane wife, Bellatrix.

Harry shuddered; remembering exactly what Hermione's treatment had been under that mad witch's hands. Others came and went and were parcelled out according to Voldemort's whim.

Harry's blood froze in his veins when he saw Rabastan LeStrange shove Hermione down onto her knees before the Dark Lord.

His fear was unrelieved when Voldemort gave her to Severus Snape to do with as he wished; she was to be the dark Potions Master's personal slave.

He hadn't been able to observe Snape long enough to figure out if he could be trusted to protect Hermione or not.

Harry would simply have to continue to believe that the Potions Master was still loyal to the Light, and was only pretending to serve Voldemort.

What else could he do in his current position?

That was the grand finale of Voldemort's awarding ceremony; the dispensation of the final member of Dumbledore's so-called 'Golden Trio'.

The Dark Lord dismissed his Inner Circle, and left to go claim his husbandly rights of his new bride as the Death Eaters all dispersed to enjoy their ill-gotten human toys.

Harry watched every action from his vantage point; he tried to remain calm, forcing himself to slowly breathe in and out in even, measured, centering breaths.

He was doing alright; maintaining his self-control quite well until Voldemort had dropped his robes and then carried Luna to his bed, kissing her deeply.

She'd been truly as light as a feather, her tiny bones feeling extremely fragile under his large hands, her mouth tasting faintly of honey-sweet wine.

Harry hadn't been prepared for actually **feeling** the sensations that Voldemort was experiencing. He'd only been gearing up for having to mentally deal with what was to come.

Now his hands tingled as imaginary flesh-warmed silk slid across his palms and fingers, the give of soft feminine curves against him as his hard-muscled body rested on top of her.

Harry's lips had swollen and now burned with the passionate kisses that Voldemort ravaged from Luna.

_And dear gods, NO!_ His cock throbbed painfully in time with Voldemort's own twitching arousal; obviously he was to experience the whole thing 'first-hand'.

Harry groaned and dropped to his knees. They'd given out on him in his instant arousal.

He painfully crawled over towards little Tommy's opposite corner and curled himself into his very own fetal ball of degradation.

Harry was torn. It all felt so very good to him physically that he almost longed for what was to come. But to have to happen with Luna, the most innocent girl that Harry had ever known!

Well, he **had** volunteered to take Tommy's place; what else had he expected? Playing crosses and naughts all night with his old friend? Not bloody well likely.

Burning with sudden shame at his uncontrollable physical reactions, and totally helpless to prevent this travesty, Harry Potter finally surrendered to the inevitable.

He slowly stretched out to lie on his back in his corner, and simply allowed the gloriously erotic sensations to wash over his own virgin body as Voldemort carried him along for the ride.

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Voldemort's long-fingered hand eased open the ties of the sheer negligee, slipping it and the thin straps holding up the girl's gown down over her thin shoulders, as he deepened their kiss.

He'd done it so gently, with such experienced finesse, that Luna hadn't even realized that her breasts were now exposed to him until she felt the cool night air waft across her nipples when he'd paused their kissing for a moment to allow them both to regain their breath.

"Raise up, wife," silkily crooned Voldemort. Luna's hips obediently rose to allow him to slip her nightwear off.

She immediately covered her small breasts with her tiny hands and tightly closed her legs in an attempt to cover her sudden nudity.

Her too-white cheeks flamed alive with maidenly embarrassment, and she couldn't for the very life of her look her husband in the eye.

"I'm afraid," she whispered.

"I know," Voldemort softly responded, just before he used his left knee to force her legs apart and settled himself inbetween her lily-white thighs.

His own large hand covered, then replaced her own with a firm push, only to begin to gently massage her untried breasts as his mouth once more assaulted her own.

He had to keep reminding himself to go slowly; that taking patience and care with the girl now would ensure him years of conjugal bliss to come, instead of leaving her a traumatized and frigid wife who would eventually bore him to death.

Rather her own death; but why quibble the issue, when so much enjoyable virgin pussy would soon enough be breeched.

She seemed to enjoy the feel of his tongue inside of her mouth; kissing her insensate appeared to be the way to loosen his bride up.

Perhaps she might be ready for the plying of his tongue elsewhere. He suckled her throat, then her breasts; first one, then the other, before slowly allowing his hot tongue to trace a path back up to her lips.

When Luna moaned her newly discovered pleasure into his mouth, Voldemort felt an unexpected thrill tingle all the way down his spine. It caused his cock to painfully harden even more and to twitch in weeping anticipation against the apex of her milky thighs.

_Circe!_ Voldemort was amazed at the new sensations he was currently experiencing with his little witch.

It was as if her first time was also his first time; his first time as it should have been, not the violent reality that it actually had been under the influence of lust potion with that old crone of a witch when he'd been a handsome schoolboy of sixteen.

Severus had been absolutely right about this; there **was** power in being his witch's first lover.

Voldemort reluctantly released the girl's lips; amazingly, her thin arms swiftly encircled his neck, her tiny hands gliding tenderly over his smooth, hairless, head as her mouth re-sought his own.

It was Voldemort's turn to groan into his witch's mouth as he plunged his tongue once more into the heat of it, his tongue duelling against her own in surprised pleasure.

His right hand drifted over her young curves, sliding it's way slowly down to barely brush the pale fur of her womanhood.

Luna suddenly pulled her lips away from their kiss in a shocked gasp at the feel of a man's touch where no hand but her own had ever been before.

"Sshhh. It's alright," Voldemort whispered against her ear as his mouth nuzzled her neck and shoulder again, then sucked down hard on her throat, marking her as his own.

His long fingers eased her nether-lips apart and he felt the beginnings of moisture within her awakening femininity against his gently plumbing digits.

With fingers and lips cajoling and priming her, Voldemort teased and eased his bride's infant arousal into a full-blown fire. Her previously chaste pussy responded to his refined finger's caressing with it's very first gush of the sweet wetness of a mini-orgasm.

Luna trembled and mewled her pleasure against his throat, her own lips now seeking and suckling; Voldemort's carefully maintained control was broken.

She was his wife.

Fuck it! He was taking her, and he was taking her **now.**

His huge cock suddenly pushed forward, replacing his long fingers, and ripping her hymen asunder with it's turgid thick length. In one fierce firm push, he was buried to the hilt.

Luna screamed so loudly that in it's raw power the very stones of Hogwarts shook and reverberated with it's shrill echo before Voldemort's firm lips smothered it into silence.

Amidst the precipitously released primeval and wild magicks flashing and flowing through and all around them both, Voldemort began the ages old rhythm of the stroking to fulfillment inside of the tight passageway of his bride who was a virgin no more.

**End of Chapter 12**

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**A/A/N: I hope it was worth the wait; I had a lot of trouble attempting to capture the moment for Luna. We'll come back later (perhaps in the form of a nightmare/flashback/girl-talk?) for a truly X-rated version--if it'll pass this site's strictures.**

**Right now, as it has been **_**repeatedly**_** pointed out to me, we need to get back to our main pairing; SS/HG.**

**So does that drop the sickle about what's coming up next? **_**--**__snickers__**--**_

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	13. Chapter 13

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A/N: Slight difference in the formatting; nothing major, just attempting to 'trim' my workload to make the format acceptable to another **age-monitored **site that I'm tentatively trying out. (if they ever go ahead and call in Orkin. They've been de-bugging it for well over a week now, and it's still not accepting new chapter uploads from anyone. Gggrrrr.)

Not to worry! I'll continue posting this ficlet on this ff-site to it's grim completion because y'all are the ones who originally gave me the courage to try to spread my wings and fly.

**By the way: **I'm still not JKR; no matter who might wish otherwise.

She and her affiliates own everything that you may recognize herein. Anything you find that varies from her original concept is truly intentional, free-form juggled like four Rubic's cubes twisted side-ways, and is now a part of my very own AU's canon.

As Hagrid would say, "Sorry 'bout that!" --_snickers_--

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Chapter 13: Awarding Day You Say?

Severus shifted uncomfortably in his seat to the Dark Lord's left.

He'd make certain that the poor little Fourth Year Hufflepuff girl that Voldemort had finally rather reluctantly granted to Crabbe for his years of loyal service would be the very last Muggleborn that twisted, sick, pervert ever defiled.

The girl was now a lost cause, as were countless others that had already been parcelled out to various Death Eaters; some of whom he was acquainted with, some not.

The dark Potions Master covered his moue of distaste at himself for having to let it all happen to them with a seemingly bored yawn. Inwardly, it took every gram of Severus' incredible skills at Occlumency and self-control to maintain his complaisant appearance.

He couldn't save them all. It was a cruel, brutal, fact of life; at least life as it would be henceforth in Voldemort's brave new world.

Severus silently vowed to his conscience that before this very week was out that the portly bulldog-faced pedophile would 'disappear' from sight. And good riddance!

The now satisfied smirk that grimly curled his thin lips up pleased Voldemort when he glanced over at his Potions Master.

So there Severus sat, his sauternine features ever-deepening into what might have been a carved ivory mask of the consummate Death Eater; seemingly completely comfortable with the idea of all of the sexual peccadilloes that would be indulged in tonight and every night to come for these poor wretches, young and old alike.

He had to tamp down the urge to resist; to fight back. The urge to help the helpless that Dumbledore had fostered within his lonely aching soul, and then used against the Potions Master to keep him in line for years.

Severus struggled within himself to shield his true thoughts and emotions from Voldemort as his very soul writhed in agony deep within his consciousness at this travesty.

Under no circumstance could he allow the Master to have any doubts again about his trustworthiness; else how could he salvage anyone, himself included?

No matter what else occurred, or to whom else it happened to, Voldemort was now the one supremely in charge.

Severus had existed in kind of shadowland between two puppetmasters for years. It was almost a relief to now have to serve only one of them.

Except for the fact that the one master that he still served was Lord Voldemort (a twisted megalomanic who demanded completely loyal service under pain of death), it wasn't such a bad life to have to live.

Ah well! Perhaps 'twill be better to rule in hell than to serve in heaven, as the Muggle poet had once said.

Severus sighed again as he complacently watched Rudolphus LeStrange's choice morsel being led in. He stared hard once more at the lad; if he hadn't have been a true Muggleborn, Severus would have thought him to be a young Sirius Black.

Now looking at the fire and fight and sheer handsomeness of the lad, Severus wondered once again if perhaps either Sirius or Regulus had left an unknown by-blow in some pretty little Muggle of their acquaintance about sixteen years ago.

Well, it would almost certainly have had to have been Regulus, then; Sirius Black had been tightly confined in Azkaban during the proper time-frame for the lad's conception.

No. It couldn't possibly be so. Albus would have surely told him about it. Wouldn't he have?

The resemblance was uncanny but, as the present Headmaster, he'd already carefully checked the boy's documentation; there was no hint of irregularities anywhere within them.

Severus had simply chalked it up to 'everybody has a double somewhere'.

Perhaps if the Order had been the victors instead of the Dark Lord, he'd have researched it a bit further. There were several dark blood spells that could confirm or deny a child's paternity beyond a shadow of a doubt.

As it stood, Severus simply accepted what the records said as truth and 'wrote off' his suspicion as irrevelant.

In true Gryffindor style, the Fifth Year dark-haired, very attractive, wirey young wizard must have fought back furiously when he'd been taken from his cell.

Both of his deep blue eyes were now thoroughly blacked. His bloody lip was split open and rapidly bruising into a nice shade of purple. His right arm appeared to have been broken, or it could have only been his wrist; he manfully struggled to not favour it, so it was difficult to determine with a mere glance.

The boy's disheveled dark head loosely hung in defeated self-resignation.

When he'd been pronounced officially Rudolphus' property, the older wizard had jerked the boy's head back by his unfashionably long, dark, hair and kissed him deeply with such bruising force that it left the boy with no illusions as to his fate.

Other than his face deepening into a more burgundy shade of shame, and a hot single teardrop of unwillingness rolling down his dirty face, Terry Gilliam offered no further resistance as he grimly accepted his life's harsh brand-new reality.

Even though to do so would certainly mean his own death sentence, Terry silently vowed to himself when LeStrange forced his tongue down his throat (in prelude to later forcing other things into other orifices) that as soon as his very first opportunity arose he was going to kill the bastard.

Terry hadn't been sorted into Gryffindor by accident. He was a brave warrior, a member of Dumbledore's Army, and had idolized his fellow Housemate, Harry Potter.

He might have to endure countless buggering sessions to purchase his chance but, by all the gods that ever were, Rudolphus LeStrange would surely die by the bare hands of a Gryffindor Mudblood one day.

'Sweet Merlin! Let it be soon; let my vengence come swiftly!' That became Terry's internal mantra as he was forced to kneel down beside Rudolphus LeStrange's chair like a cumbersome lapdog.

His new master laid a heavy, possessive, hand on top of his head and ruffled the tangle of longish black hair exactly as if he'd been a black curly cocker spaniel. Another bitter tear slowly painted a trail to join that earlier first one down his dirty face.

Terry could meet no one else's eyes in his utter humiliation; how could he?

Another ruffle of his hair, and then a single long finger slid down his cheek and stroked away his embarrassed tear. His head jerked up, and his sapphire blue eyes widened in sudden sexual awareness of the older wizard.

Rudolphus stuck the dampened digit into his mouth, and sensuously suckled the salty drop off the tip. "Mmm. You're delicious," he purred as he smiled widely into the boy's shocked eyes.

Bellatrix leaned forwards and formally addressed him, "Welcome to the family, Mudblood."

She sniggered at the boy's open-mouthed shock. Rudolphus laughed loudly, his head lolling back, the genuine amusement shaking even the chair in which he sat.

When the next handsome dark haired young man was led in before the Dark Lord, Rudolphus' laughter slowly stilled. He was shocked and amazed that Bella was being granted, and was actually accepting, a Mudblood toy.

His younger wife had never before been so honored; now this singular honor proved her to be the equal to all of the wizards present in her loyalty and service to the Dark Lord.

She hadn't even consulted him beforehand in her selection of the slave which surely must be meant for his benefit. This one was too burly; too muscular; too 'top'.

Handsome, tall, and dark, yes; sleek, slender, and beautiful, no.

Rudolphus was looking over just who might possibly be willing to do a 'trade off', and what else was available amongst them, when he plainly heard Bellatrix thanking the Master for "her" new toy after deeply kissing the embarrassed boy in acceptance of him as her personal slave.

What's this? For **her?** A living, breathing, sex-toy for his wife; on the Master's order?

Ah well. Perhaps they could share him after all; there was always Polyjuice Potion, and he was an expert at brewing that one particular potion.

That might be where Rudolphus LeStrange's skills at potions brewing began and ended but, by Merlin's hoary balls, the much older wizard had truly perfected that one.

With his own alterations, it now altered the diguised person's voice to the assumed identity's voice; it even could fool a werewolf's sense of smell as the disguised person exuded the same pheremonal scent as the assumed identity.

It lasted up to three hours for just a sip or two of the vile tasting mess, instead of only an hour for a full cup's dosage of the original recipe. Of this accomplishment, Severus Snape was still jealous of Rudolphus LeStrange; he'd never managed to accomplish the same result.

Nor would he ever have, not if he ever learnt the secret ingredient that LeStrange used to perform this miracle.

Severus Snape could nor would ever cut an unborn child from it's mother's living womb to be boiled down into a potion's ingredient.

No matter what he might personally believe to be the condition and colour of his dark soul, the sarcastic Potions Master wasn't yet that black and evil to the core.

Lily Evans, first his green-eyed young Muggleborn playmate and later the only woman he'd ever truly loved, and Albus Dumbledore, first his teacher, then mentor, manipulator, confessor, and secret Master of Light had made certain of that between the two of them; when push had come to shove during Severus' life to return a wayward son to the Path of Light.

Between them they'd dusted off his conscience, given it a 'whacking' when it'd needed it, and given him ample time to brood and to mentally flagellate himself into repentence. Now their job was finished. He just needed a new teacher now. Or a student.

Severus allowed his onyx eyes to focus intently on the girl now stumbling her way down the long walk to the dais; even filthy, ragged, blackened eyed, and bloodied, he wanted her.

Her razor-sharp mind, her skills and natural talent; she'd dared to attempt brewing Polyjuice Potion as a Second Year . . . and would have been most successful, had she not inadvertently added cat's fur into the mix instead of human hair!

His amused memory of the 'tail swishing incident' when he'd checked on her condition and had scolded her on that potion's dangers while she'd been recovering in the infirmary stretched his thin lips up tighter into a full-blown smile.

By the time he'd refocused his black eyes on her, she'd reached the proper place in front of Voldemort and Rabastan shoved her down to assume the proper position of respect.

'Here we go,' Severus desperately thought, as he turned his gaze and attention towards the Master, and waited.

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The former Great Hall was temporarily serving as the Dark Lord's audience chamber.

He was using the impressive ancient oaken Headmaster's chair as an implied throne; it already stood in the center of the dais anyway. His elite Inner Circle sat in a line of seats on either side of him.

It was indeed her Judgement Day. Rabastan shoved her down on her knees and went to take his seat beside Bella and Rudolphus.

"Ah, Miss Granger," the Dark Lord said pleasantly. "Still alive I see, and relatively unharmed?" he left it hanging as a question.

A question that she'd best respond to, if she knew what was good for her.

"Quite well . . . sir," as she struggled for a moment with just what to call the evil wizard ensconced before her.

"Good. That is well then; you will be in fine shape for your new position in life," he said with some degree of satisfaction.

"My . . . my . . . new life, sir?" she dumbly parroted Voldemort's words, slack jawed in her relief at being reprieved. Hermione hadn't expected to live. She still didn't fully comprehend her current situation; there were worse fates than mere death.

Voldemort's forehead wrinkled impressively upwards in his clear disbelief. "And this is supposedly the brightest witch of her age, Severus?" he increduously questioned.

At the slight, amused, inclination of the raven's wing black head of his personal advisor and Potions Master, the Dark Lord sadly 'tsked' down at her once again.

He waved a dismissive hand at the kneeling girl and said aloud for the benefit of his pet Death Eaters, "Behold my loyal servants! The Brain of the old fool's Golden Trio; a helpless Mudblood whore."

Laughter and loud hoots of 'stupid Mudblood' and 'what did you expect? she's just a Mudblood' echoed throughout the chamber; only Severus, his cousin Lucius, and his friend Rabastan LeStrange failed to join in the baiting of the battered and defeated girl.

Voldemort stood up onto his feet; he was in a very good mood indeed as he circled the kneeling bleeding Mudblood. He'd just 'ticked' another 'thing to do' from his list and soon would be enjoying his very own reward of never-touched prime pussy himself.

Strange that. Voldemort still couldn't rationalize to himself exactly why he was so looking forward to bedding his bride, but he was. Since the ceremony there'd been no help for it; his cock twitched in it's support and confirmation to his actual brain's thoughts.

Yes; he wanted his new bride more than any fuck that he'd had in years. Time to wrap this shit up and go.

Voldemort returned to his high place on the dais, carefully adjusted his richly embroidered black velvet robes, and resumed his seat. He motioned for Severus to lean closer in to him as the kneeling girl stared at them all with confused, hate-filled, brown eyes.

The Dark Lord began to quietly speak to him from what little bit of heart that he had still beating within his pale hairless chest.

"Severus, of late it has begun to pain me that perhaps I didn't properly consider your feelings concerning the previous Mudblood witch that you desired. Perhaps, had I spared her and her son to you, he could have been turned to our side through your influence and would have become my loyal servant instead of my nemesis. I would still have my first body, and would not have experienced the difficulties that I had existing as a noncorporeal entity. Nor would I have had to endure the pain of being reborn into this incarnation," Voldemort looked to be extremely uncomfortable at his regretful, remorseful, disclosure; no one else could hear a word currently being said between Master and servant.

Before he'd spoken the first word aloud, the Dark Lord had cast a subvocal silencing charm to just cover the two of them. Severus was simply gob-smacked. Voldemort admitting to a mistake was indeed a redletter day on anybody's calendar.

As soon as Severus had managed to snap his mouth back shut, Voldemort dropped the silencing charm and continued for the benefit of all present, "As you seem to be so very fond of Mudblood witches, Severus, I thought to give you this one to do with as you see fit. Whatever you want with or from her, the Brightest Witch of her age, she's now yours."

Severus rapidly digested this twist in his life; what he'd wanted, the witch he'd secretly begun to desire, now his property for the taking. He swallowed hard. He had to respond; to reply.

It was expected of him. It was common curtesy. It'd keep him from pissing Voldemort off, spoiling his good mood, and receiving a healthy dose of 'Crucio' for himself.

Slowly Severus unfurled his tall lean body from his tall backed chair, came to his feet, and descended the dais to stalk in a wide circle around Hermione Granger like a hungry black panther.

What a mess she was in. He needed to get her back to Malfoy Manor. She needed healing and he wanted the chance to explain things rationally to the chit; all better done in private.

"Thank you, my Lord, for your most generous gift. She'll make a worthy replacement for the other Mudblood witch that I lost last time."

At Hermione Granger's shocked gasp, Severus threw back his dark head and laughed at her shocked reaction.

Sneering down into Hermione's bruised and bloodied face, Severus mirthlessly laughed again, then he sarcastically continued, "All Mudblood witches are the same in the dark, after all, my Lord. Suitable cumbuckets all."

Voldemort threw back his serpentine head and roared with laughter. He waved a hand of dismissal towards the dark Potion's Master.

Severus jerked the terrified young witch up by her right shoulder, clamped her painfully tight to his left side, covered her swollen bleeding mouth with a bruising kiss of accepting her as his, and Apparated them straightway into his private library inside of Malfoy Manor.

END OF CHAPTER 13

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A/A/N: I was recently made aware that some of you readers out there in ff-land do not know how to access the author's profile/bio page. Forgive me in advance for "over-explaining" (in true Hermione Granger fashion) if you already know how to 'pull it up'.

If you don't know how, try this; Point your cursor up to the author's name plate right beneath the story title plate, and 'click-on' the author's name. It'll "take" you there.

Some author's keep themselves extremely 'private' and don't say too much (if anything) about themselves; some are verbous old bitchy-witches like me, and 'spill their guts out' two pages long. --_snickers_--

That's also how to 'pull up' and read all of the public reviews that have been submitted on any given story; run your cursor up to the coloured number of how many reviews the story has and simply 'click-on' the numeral.

Please browse my profile/bio page; it contains my Avatar of how **I** see Severus and Hermione--tentative but hopeful; intelligently trusting but still unsure. YOURS.

(that's an "invite" y'all; please feel free to PM or email me with any questions you may still have concerning anything going on in my story that you're confused about. I make time to answer all of my private correspondence. Eventually.) --_snickers again_--

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	14. Chapter 14

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A/N: Yawn! I just checked again. No. I'm still not JK; sorry.

I am merely me; a flawed, frail, human being. If you find any mistakes herein, please try to remember that.

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CHAPTER 14: or; HEALING HERMIONE: Part One;

With a sharp 'clap' of Apparation echoing throughout the room, Severus Snape and Hermione Granger were instantly inside of an elegantly simple small walnut-panelled library within the South Wing of Malfoy Manor.

The floor-to-ceiling shelves surrounding the perimeter of the room were filled to running over with books and manuscripts of all types. A small fire burned cheerily in the hearth of a petite, carved marble, fireplace; all in all a room, that under different circumstances, Hermione should have loved to be inside of.

Severus immediately let go of the young witch who'd begun to suddenly and desperately struggle within his arms like a rather smelly slippery fish.

He walked over to a nearby cabinet, reached for a beautiful crystal decanter setting on top of it, and calmly poured himself a drink.

"Professor Snape?" Hermione softly whispered, swallowing hard. Her lips still burned with his unexpected kiss.

A kiss that had sent more electricity surging through her body than any brief snog she'd ever shared with anyone before; even the earthshaking kiss that had been the last one that she'd ever share with Ron.

Her heart thumped in a painful stacatto as it attempted to escape her chest. The Professor's kiss hadn't been merely earthshaking; it had been earthshattering. It had been a revelation.

It left her mind whirling in a hazy fog that she now mentally stumbled through.

Hermione was still processing all of the data that she'd gleaned from her recent evaluation before the Dark Lord; as she understood the general gist of it, she must now be in the unconscionable position of a slave.

Her former Professor's slave to be exact.

Those bottomless black eyes swivelled back in surprise to meet her honey-brown eyes at her form of respectful address. "Yes, Miss Granger?" he softly querried.

"Please sir," she hopefully began. "Let me go. I'll leave the country. I . . . I'll portkey to Australia or Canada. I'll never use magic again. I'll disappear back into the Muggle world somewhere far away. You can tell Voldemort that I bored or annoyed you and that you killed me . . . ," Hermione let her voice fade away into silence as his black eyebrow continued to rise higher in amused disbelief at each word that had tumbled so quickly from her mouth.

"The Master would expect to view the corpse, Miss Granger. Then, there is the distinct probability that he'd take exception to my so cavalierly disposing of his carefully chosen personal gift to me," his words, spoken so calmly, as if discussing the weather instead of her fate only added to the surrealism of the scene for Hermione.

Her teacher of the past seven years allowed his unfathomable obsidian eyes to slowly roam over her face; they took in every detail. Hermione thought she could feel him counting the individual grains of dirt and grime clinging to it.

The Potions Master walked over to a black leather wingback chair and made a show of taking a seat. He still hadn't offered her a seat, and she was unsure of what would happen next.

"Sir?" she tried again.

At his focusing on her hopeful amber eyes, she let her fierce desperation shine out of them in a blinding glow, "Please sir! Then really do it. Kill me. You know my temperment and personality; you've given me detention often enough for it. I'll never 'know' or be able to 'keep' to my place in Voldemort's world. As you told him yourself, 'all Mudblood witches are alike in the dark'. You could easily replace me and I could escape years of torture and servitude."

Those black bottomless eyes staring at her widened in shocked amazement.

_'She'd actually prefer death to my touch? After all that I've done for HER? After all I've done for the side of Light? All I've suffered? My loneliness to remain unassuaged? I'll be DAMNED!'_

"Miss Granger. What makes you think that you are immune to the same fate as every other young witch of your heritage? Are you truly that special?" his raised hand halted the words that had rushed up to hover on her lips.

"The answer to my question is 'Yes' Miss Granger. To me you are indeed that special. Every form of refuge has its price, you foolish, silly, little girl! I'm offering you refuge with me; you will never be a "Mudblood" in my eyes, Miss Granger. In my eyes you will always be the brightest Muggleborn witch of your age, at least within the privacy of my home," he said with all sincerity.

Hermione swallowed hard when he'd paused for a moment to allow his words to sink in. That hadn't sounded so bad to her; then he spoiled it all by continuing on.

"But to kill you? Never! You belong to me now," those glittering black eyes burned into her surprised eyes as he emphasized the final coup de gras of his monologue, "and I never accept less than **full** value from all of my possessions."

Hermione drew in a sharp breath, even though it pained her side terribly.

_'Dear gods! What's he going to do to me?' _she frantically thought, staring with wide amber eyes at her former Professor, as he sat comfortably esconced in an armchair only three feet in front of her.

He swirled his brandy in it's very expensive crystal snifter, and slowly perused her with those unfathomable black eyes of his.

Hermione shifted nervously from foot-to-foot, and longed to sit down. She honestly didn't know if her legs were going to continue to support her much longer; she felt faint from hunger, pain, and thirst.

After three days of imprisonment in the cramped holding cages both witnessing and experiencing first hand how Death Eaters treated, and failed to treat their prisoners, Hermione had few illusions left as to what her future life would most likely be.

Professor Severus Snape hadn't been working for the Order and the Side of Light after all; he was just another twisted perverted Death Eater, just like the rest of Voldemort's mongrel horde.

He would still be playing the tune and she'd still have to dance to it, just as she'd already been doing for seven years as his student; nothing was different about that.

Well, Hermione realistically accepted that **one** thing would be vastly different in their arrangement.

She belonged to Professor Snape now just as he'd already spoken of it once to the Dark Lord.

He'd called her a Mudblood right there to her face in Voldemort's audience chamber, in front of all of those assembled Death Eaters; she was now a commodity, a present, an object to be given away or to be taken.

She'd now be shagging her former Professor whenever he desired her; or doing anything else that he bloody-well commanded her to do.

But he'd have to order her. She'd **never** volunteer to willingly be abased or abused.

Hermione Granger was now a slave; but she was still grateful that out of the many sociopaths and psychopaths that could have claimed her as such, that she belonged soley to Snape. Her fate could have been worse.

Sweet Merlin! It could **definitely **have been worse.

Luna Lovegood had let her in on an undercover sting operation that her father had going on at the Quibbler.

It was set to be an expose into Death Eater mores.

Luna had to make her Gryffindor best friend swear a wizarding oath of secrecy, because Hermione had wanted to call in the Aurors right then and there upon learning the details of it.

It concerned pedophiles and sex crimes against children; Crabbe Senior had featured prominently within it.

He'd given her **such** a look as she'd been paraded past him by Rabastan LeStrange that her blood had frozen to ice in her veins.

She was startled out of her reverie by the Professor's meliflourous baritone softly washing over her fragile nerves, "Strip off your clothes, Miss Granger."

Her shocked brown eyes flew back to meet those bottomless black wells once more.

_'Surely he doesn't want me NOW, like this; covered in blood and dirt and stench? _

_Merlin! It wasn't as if I were simply gone away on a spring holiday; baths weren't allowed--or healing either for that matter. _

_Oh dear gods! What if he's a sadist, like Bellatrix LeStrange and Anton Dolohov? _

_What . . . if . . . what if . . . Oh . . . gods! Oh gods . . . , ohgods, ohgodsohgodsohgodsohgods . . . _

Hermione reddened from her toes to her hair-roots; she dropped her embarrassed gaze to her pink-painted toenails, slowly lifted her hands, and caught hold of the hem of her filthy, ripped, jumper.

She winced and sharply sucked in her breath as the dull ache of the broken, but unset, ribs within her ribcage (caused by Voldemort's 'Crucio' several days ago now) seared brightly alive again with white-hot pain caused by her movements.

The many untreated, festering, blood-crusted cuts and gashes on her upper arms, throat, and formerly satiny smooth abdomen bled afresh as she slowly pulled the dried thick scabs of days away from them along with the stained article of clothing.

Hermione dropped the filthy jumper onto the smooth dark parquet of his private library floor, and wanted to sink through it herself.

That wasn't happening for Hermione today; her miracles were all used up.

Hot tears of shame and pain ran freely down her cheeks and dripped down off of her chin as her fingers sought the snap and zip of her low-slung jeans. She fumbled in the heavy denim fabric with fingers made clumsy by her nervousness.

It seemed to Hermione that it took her an hour to just manage to get them down.

They, too, were crusted with dried blood (and gods only knew what else) and were also stuck hard to several deep gouges and cuts. Then there was one painfully deep burn on her left thigh; it was the size of one of Hagrid's handprints.

The denim tore away from her jeans there, where she was burnt. It remained behind, embedded into the charred flesh of her thigh, and her grime-crusted face turned deathly white in her agony.

Hermione wavered on her feet, panting small ragged painful gasps of air, as the room spun and went darkly grey around her.

She bravely managed to retain consciousness, although silently dry-heaving from the excruciating pain.

Hermione now stood bruised, bloodied, broken, dirty, and stinking to high-heaven in her plain white cotton bra, seviceable knickers, and nothing else; quivering with shock and chill before an immaculately groomed and completely dressed Professor Severus Snape.

The reality of her situation was **nothing** like the simple schoolgirl fantasies that she'd had from time to time concerning her darkly handsome (at least to her way of thinking), mysterious, and charismatically demanding, Potions teacher.

Hermione had actually developed a brief crush on the tragically dark Potions Master in her Fifth Year.

The Professor been magnificent in her eyes, standing unmoved and dignified, under that bitch of a witch Delores Umbridge's needling inquisition of him in his classroom before his students; instead of being done privately in her office as his tenure and position rightfully deserved.

That was also the year when she'd first learned that Professor Snape been acting for years as a spy against Voldemort for the Order of the Phoenix.

Hermione had begun to have foolishly idealist little schoolgirl wetdreams about the intelligent, gifted, powerful spy and Potions Master as her budding feminine sex-drive had begun to truly come alive that year.

She'd been far more attracted to the Professor than she'd ever been to poor Viktor the year before; really, could she ever have had an intelligent conversation with the goodhearted, but rather dense, Bulgarian Quidditch star?

But oh what interesting conversations, all spoken to her in that chocolate-rich voice, before a cozy fire that she'd dreamed of sharing with Professor Snape. Never even in her wildest fantasy had it ever went further than wondering what his kiss would feel and taste like.

That had all just been a girlish fantasy.

Now she knew exactly what his kiss was like; and it would go much further than a kiss this time.

This time it would be for real.

She'd heard that **"it"** hurt. She already hurt; what would one more pain be now?

The brandy snifter suddenly appeared in her blurred line of vision just below her chin.

Hermione hadn't even heard or noticed him moving. She'd been staring at her naked toes.

"Drink, Miss Granger," came the soft command.

Hermione had rarely heard Professor Snape speaking in such a kindly tone to anyone. She shook her head. His authoritative and irritated reply cut back, "Drink at least one healthy swallow. That's an order, slave."

His pale long-fingered hand pressed the glass into her hand. She dully raised it to her lips and choked a tiny swallow down.

After her coughing fit had subsided, Hermione dared to meet Snape's black eyes once more.

She caught a look of distress and honest caring on his sauternine face (for just a split-second before he swiftly hid it again). He examined her injuries as carefully and as thoroughly as any medi-witch would have.

Severus went over every inch of her, checking and re-checking his diagnosis, but never actually touching her body in any way.

He removed his black robe and covered Hermione with it, saying as he did so, "Lie down on the sofa. You need healing. I will heal you."

Hermione clutched the profferred robe against her like a shield and choked back a grateful sob. Words were beyond her at the gentleness of his tone.

"Miss Granger?" he softly asked.

Hermione's glistening amber eyes darted up to meet his inscrutable onyx gaze. "Yes, sir?" she whispered.

"What is your favourite flavor of hard candy?" He'd used his 'teaching voice' and she instinctively blurted out the first answer that had popped into her head, "Wild cherry."

"Of course it would be," he smirked, with a small grin and an amused upwards quirk of his inky right eyebrow.

Hermione did as he'd ordered her to do; she painfully limped over and laid down on his sofa, pulling the softest cashmere of his black Death Eater's robe around her like a cocoon of an embrace.

She didn't know what else to do.

Severus stood silently watching her for a few more moments.

Her exhausted amber eyes slowly drifted shut; her breathing slowed to a steady, even, push of in-and-out, in-and-out, as sleep finally caught up with his wounded young lioness.

Severus turned sharply on his heel and pressed the second book to his left on the fourth shelf down; that section of the bookcase silently swung outward.

He stepped inside the secret passageway and then onto the first rung of the iron fretwork spiral staircase that led down to the Malfoy cellars, and his personal brewing laboratory.

Ever so quietly, he left Hermione to her fitful slumber.

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The cauldron was just beginning to simmer; Severus quickly added the first three ingredients and stirred it the required number of counter-clockwise turns with the willow ladle.

He moved over to take several pinches of this and that herb that hung in bunches drying from the rafter above his workbench. The faint 'pop' of a house elf's Apparition heralded the entrance of his personal house elf, Gristle.

Gristle had been his naming day present from his Uncle Ethan; the only member of his mother's immediate family that had ever even acknowledged his existence.

Gristle had served as a sort of "nursery elf" to nine generations of the Prince family; his uncle and mother included. She was rarely called on anymore, and his uncle hadn't thought that she'd even be missed amongst so many others waiting to serve.

He'd been right; the house elf had never been missed. But to the young Severus, Gristle had been a god-send.

By secret elfin magicks, she'd managed to find a way to secure bread, cheese, bits of meat, and occasionally milk, each night for the undernourished and mistreated young boy. Her gentle hands had healed many stripes and bruises and small broken bones.

It was her lullaby that he heard echoing throughout his earliest memories.

Gristle was as damned-near to being his mother as his real mother, Eileen, had been. Severus loved Gristle for it.

"Yes, Gristle?" he exasperatedly sighed. She stood with her arms belligerantly crossed across her ample elfin chest, fuzzy head tilted sideways, frowning at her Master.

Severus moved around her to add the required herbs; the blue smoke turned a lovely shade of lavender as he slowly stirred it ten times clockwise. Essentially the nutrition potion was complete; he could have stopped right there.

Instead he shifted through two shelves of extracts and essences and essential oils before he finally found what he'd been searching for; a small brown vial.

He poured a hefty, Hagrid-sized, spoonful of it into the brew; the lavender smoke mellowed into a rich purple.

Without a word to her Master, Gristle silently began ladling the potion into the proper sterile bottles.

She'd been helping her Master with his brewing since his very first childhood attempts at potions that had ended up more soup than potion. She was accustomed to every aspect of where to help and where to simply leave it for him alone to tend to.

"Go ahead, Gristle," Severus said as he left the boring, but necessary, work to her. "You may speak freely."

He was already moving from shelf to shelf, pulling down a bottle here, a pot of unguent there, adding to his rapidly filling black leather travelling-potion's case.

"I'se sees that the Master has him's a witch now," the disgruntled house elf sniffed.

"Poor Master. First He-who-must-not-be-named saddles my Master with the dunderhead of the long bottoms; now it's burdened with Miss Fuzzy-haired Know-It-All's that he is."

Severus snorted at how she'd put it, and quickly turned it into a cough; but it had been the touchstone that he'd needed to restore his humor in a situation which right now was sadly lacking that very ingredient.

As Severus carefully selected the few surgical implements that he'd need to cut away the burnt flesh of her thigh to prevent infection he softly spoke half to Gristle, half to himself, "I've only recently begun to believe that the witch might possibly be quite acceptable to me. Whether I'm acceptable to her or not remains yet to be seen."

At this vulnerable statement, it was Gristle's turn to snort her amazed disbelief.

She smartly answered her Master back with the bluntness of extended time's acquaintance and much love, "Then the missy is not so very Know-It-All's after all. House elf's always know exactly what is needed. Master is needing Missy Know-It-All, yes; but even more than him is Missy Know-It-All needing of the Master."

Severus' black eyes widened in shock, but the magickal truth of the elf's statement struck a chord deep within his Eildarvitch blood.

As impossible as it currently seemed to be, somehow they'd always been destined to be paired together.

It had only taken Voldemort's victory to finally make it happen.

How bizarre.

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A/A/N: I **could **have "rushed" it; left out much "back-drop" and much "background". Spit out only the barest pertinent details and given it all to you in one quickly slurped-up bite to be just as quickly forgotten.

But where's the fun in that for you, or for me?

The enjoyment should be in the journey of the story; not the destination in and of it's self. (if you just want the destination, I refer you back to the Prologue; there it is)

Hard at work on Part Two even as you're reading this. --snickers--

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	15. Chapter 15

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A/N: I am not now, nor have I ever claimed to be, J. K. Rowling. She (and her affiliates) own it all people and make all of the monies from it.

I own nothing except my own strange imagination, but it's free. Deal with it. --snickers--

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CHAPTER 15: HEALING HERMIONE; Part Two:

A warm, wet, flannel being suddenly and quite vigorously applied to her face caused Hermione to gasp and jerk away from it in instantly awakened awareness.

She was literally nose-to-nose with an unknown house elf; a female one with a rather disapproving frown creasing her wizened crinkled face, at that.

"The missy is wakened now Master," it called back somewhere over it's shoulder.

"Thank you, Gristle," replied a deep, rich, voice that Hermione remembered all too well.

Severus Snape stepped into the startled young witch's line of vision; he was holding a steaming cup. "Drink, Miss Granger," he calmly ordered her, as he proffered the vessel.

"What is it?" Ever the 'want-to-know-it-all', Hermione had blurted the question out to him, even as her slender right hand obediently reached for and took the cup from him.

"Poison," he sarcastically replied with a brief, wry grin before his face settled into it's normal sour expression. "Now drink it up, so we can begin your healing."

Hermione stared down into what appeared to be a steaming cross between roughly pureed spinach (or seaweed) and gloppy brown gravy.

_'What in the world?'_ she thought, as she lifted the cup to her lips, and successfully managed to avoid it's aroma as she took the first tentative sip of the strange brew.

Hermione swallowed the concoction with great trepidation; it unpleasantly slid down her throat with a slimy texture somewhere between that of boiled eels crossed with soured borscht.

But the flavor was simply heavenly! Thickly sweet with the cloying taste of ripe, wild, cherries.

She spared the Potion's Master a brief, grateful, grin and greedily slurped down the remainder.

If it wouldn't have been considered to be the height of ill-manners, she'd have ran her finger around the bottom of the cup and licked off every dreg.

Hermione still quite unconsciously licked her lips clean as she passed the cup back into his again outstretched hand.

"Good?" he softly querried with an actual smile, instead of that sarcastic smirk of a grin that he normally used to show his amusement.

Two huge amber eyes met his with curious, open, honesty.

"Very," she just as softly replied.

The cup rattled in the Professor's hand at the depth of her look. For just an instant, his black eyes had widened until Hermione could have sworn that she'd seen a pale golden halo briefly encircling those obsidian depths.

Severus tightened his grip on the cup, sharply turned on his booted heel, and stepped away from the girl to set it down on top of the liquor cabinet with a sharp 'clink' of the fragile bone-china.

Instantly Hermione was no longer hungry or thirsty. In mere minutes she felt stronger, healthier; still wounded . . . still in pain . . . but infinitely stronger.

_'Merlin! His skill at potions is truly amazing . . . I wonder . . . perhaps . . . no. No. He'd never apprentice me, the insufferable Know-It-All. I'm just supposed to be his . . . his . . . bedwarmer.'_

"Yes. Missy feeling is much more better now, Master," said the unknown house elf, as she nodded her fuzzy head at her, with the comfortable ease of long acquaintance with the Professor.

It dipped the flannel back into the basin of warm water, rang it out, and determinedly attempted to clean Hermione's face again.

Hermione, just as determinedly, fought it as fiercely as she was able for control of the flannel.

"I'm perfectly capable of washing my own face. Please let go of the flannel. Just let it go. NOW!" she attempted to firmly order it; to Severus' ears it simply reeked of childish bickering.

It only further emphasized the difference in their ages to him; although to most wizards' way of thinking the mere eighteen years (and three-quarters) variant between them was so small as to be completely negligible.

The young witch might be currently legal in both worlds however, to the world-weary Potions Master, Hermione Granger was still very much a child in some of her reactions.

'Ah well. Her own aging process will 'even' that up. Eventually,' Severus grimly thought to himself. 'After all the Dark Lord wants it this way now, just as it used to be in his time; with all young, powerful, strong witches placed under an older, more experienced, wizard's control for breeding up a new generation of loyal Death Eaters.'

It was too late now to back out of it gracefully anyway.

He'd already bonded himself to the insufferable Gryffindor brat when he'd accepted her as his own . . . bondswoman . . . with that sealing kiss in the Great Hall.

Severus Snape wouldn't allow himself to abase someone he'd desired for so long by calling her a slave.

There was nothing even remotely 'slave-like' about Miss Hermione Granger in his eyes.

Where others had seen 'shy bookishness', Severus had always seen enthusiastic studiousness.

Where others had seen the bushy haired, bucktoothed, awkwardly gangly child, he'd seen the brilliance of a mind to equal his own.

He'd forced himself to ignore or demerit her wherever possible, lest word get back to the Dark Lord that he favoured yet another Mudblood Gryffindor witch; especially one so closely tied yet again to Harry Bloody Potter.

Severus hadn't meant for it to be cruel when he'd said that he'd seen no difference in her looks when his godson had hit her front teeth with that nasty hex; it'd merely been the truth.

He'd never really 'looked' at the girl's childish physical form with his eyes; he'd looked at the girl's already mature mind with his own instead.

In his mind's eye he had always seen the woman that the young witch would one day be; beautiful, strong, brave, and blazingly intelligent.

Now he could add extremely passionate to the list of totted up attractions that this witch embodied within her lithe young frame.

Severus would bet his last sickle that, given his sexual experience and prowess, he could bed this witch in four notes or less.

Nothing about their shared Kiss had been even remotely virginal!

It had seared his soul with it's raw, untutored, passion.

It had been an earthshattering revelation to him of the fiery woman that existed deep inside of the obnoxious child. She just needed careful awakening by a full-grown adult wizard; instead of the continued fumbling with mere schoolboys, and learning nothing of true passion's skills.

And Oh, sweet Merlin! How badly Severus wanted to awaken her to that right now, simply remembering that kiss again.

Instead he roared, "ENOUGH!", instantly frightening both his witch and his house elf out of their ridiculously petty argument and into silence.

Severus took a couple of deep calming breaths, and counted to ten (twice) to suppress both his ire at himself (for his explosion) and his annoyance with his two females for 'pressing his buttons'.

Then he continued in a much calmer tone, "Miss Granger, you will kindly be silent and accept the fact that Gristle will be sponging you off. After you're physically better, you may bathe yourself in privacy; right now it will be better for all parties concerned for you to simply lie back, shut the fu . . . uh . . . well, aahmmph," clearing his throat as a very slight blush flushed his cheekbones at his frustrated near-slip of foul language, "just control your tongue, witch, and let Gristle be about her business."

The house elf, that Hermione now assumed to be named "Gristle", smirked into her face with an 'I've won the battle' look curling up it's lips and crinkling it's blue eyes up merrily at the corners.

It reapplied the now chilly flannel even more vigorously to her face.

"Ow! Careful, that hurt," Hermione whispered to it as it firmly scrubbed over her blackened eye. The house elf paused, and then began to wipe the grime away more slowly and more carefully.

Hermione had to admit that there was something . . . comforting . . . about Gristle's ministrations. She'd been a child of seven the last time her mum had actually washed her face for her, and she'd been feverish at the time with some childhood ailment or other.

A single tear slowly trickled down her cheek at the memory of a mother that she'd never know again. Gristle began to softly hum a simple unknown tune, and her touch with the flannel became infinitely more gentle.

"Ssshh, young missy," Gristle whispered under her breath so that only the girl could hear. "It 'twill all be for the best; you will see. Gristle knows. Missy will see."

Gristle nodded in agreement with herself at the odd statement, as if the future was already a 'done-deal' from the house elf's perspective.

And perhaps it was; after all, elfin magicks worked on a very different plane than regular magicks did for wizards and witches.

She'd learnt that from Dobby; poor, goodhearted, dead, Dobby.

A fresh tear of loss slowly slid down her cheek to join the first one.

Gristle began to softly hum again, and gently applied the suddenly re-warmed flannel to Hermione's shoulder as what seemed to be an ocean of silent tears came and went like waves on a beach.

"Grievings must always come first, then will come the healings now," it whispered so softly that Hermione missed it in her feelings of loss and grief.

Now Hermione's healing could begin in earnest.

Unbeknown to Hermione, the house elf calmly proceeded to magickally rub away some of the young missy's lifetime of heartache along with her encrusted dirt of days.

All house elves had some special ability along with their regular elfin magicks. That was Gristle's gift; soothing children and taking their childhood pains away.

By the time this witch's body had healed, so would her heart; she'd be ready for the Master then.

Gristle smiled knowingly to herself and continued to bathe the now compliant, silently weeping, girl before her with her love.

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Severus set the cup down on the cabinet with a firm 'clink' of bone-china, and strode over to his desk after his irritated outburst at his two females.

He began to silently clear the smooth mahogany surface of his private desktop by hand. It gave him a useful occupation for his hands and body as he calmed and centered himself for the bloody task to come.

Parchments and scrolls that had been spilling from their place on the corner onto the floor were tidied and carefully put away in the proper drawers. Various ink pots and quills, along with his signature blood-red wax and personal seal, were neatly tucked away.

From across the room he could hear Gristle's faint hum of a lullaby that he remembered so well from his very earliest childhood memories of a toddler of three or four.

That first time Gristle had sung her lullaby to him had been late in the night after the first time his father had ever beaten him for an uncontrolled burst of childhood wild magicks. His mother was being beaten in her face and choked nearly unconscious by his father in the midst of a wildly drunken rage; her toddler son had attempted to come to her aid.

When Tobias Snape had picked himself up off of the floor across the room, from where the toddler's panicked outburst had thrown him, he came up pulling his wide, thick, leather belt from his workpant's beltloops.

The beating that Severus received had left great wide burgundy whelts across his small-for-his-age, bony, little back that rapidly turned into long, two-inch wide, purple bruises.

Very late in the night, long after he'd painfully sobbed himself to sleep on his small pallet in the corner of the tiny room that he'd been allotted, Gristle had come to him.

There had been a cup of warm milk, heavily laced with lavender and sweetened with wild comb-honey, and a still-fresh whole croissant filled with thinly shaved ham for him to eat and drink.

And after he'd filled his little growling stomach (that'd had nothing else except water inside of it all day long) into drowsy fullness, Gristle had sponged his wounded back and hummed her soft lullaby.

He'd drifted off into a wonderfully pleasant dream; the details weren't ever clear to him, even then, but he'd awakened the next morning with a smile on his face and no bruising at all on his little back.

Just catching the faintest hint of the tune, even now as a full-grown wizard . . . and an official Death Eater at that, still had the power to bring a small respite of silence and peace to Severus' bruised soul.

His desktop finally cleared, Severus transfigured it into the correct size and height of a surgical table. He proceeded to set up his instruments, potions, unguents, and bandages on a hastily conjured up tray that hung magically suspended near where his right hand would be reaching as he worked on the girl.

The last addition (added almost as an after-thought) was a thin mattress covered in sterile white cotton sheeting across the hard surface of his desk, that had now magically become a makeshift surgical suite.

He didn't trust **his **Miss Granger to the 'tender mercies' of the squad of Death Eaters now in charge of St. Mungo's.

He had the necessary skills; nevermind how he'd acquired them. He'd do it himself.

Miss Granger had drifted off to sleep while being bathed off by Gristle; he'd expected it. He bent and lifted the girl up with his strong arms; her eyes jerked into instant awareness.

"What are you doing?" she squeaked out in her alarm.

"I'm going to cut the damaged flesh away from your body and re-grow fresh, new tissue in it's place. You'll be as good as new when I'm done, Miss Granger," came the honest reply.

At the sharp hiss of terrified inhalation she'd sucked in, he suddenly remembered what Bella and Anton had done to the girl.

Severus took mercy on her, and explained himself more thoroughly, "I'll take the greatest care of you, Miss Granger. You'll be given many pain potions, and a Dreamless Sleep Draught, to take right before any pain that I must, however unwillingly, inflict upon you in order to properly heal you."

Hermione stared into those bottomless black eyes, and slowly nodded her hopelessly tangled, bushy-haired head; she believed him.

He'd only stated the simple truth. She needed healing. He was going to heal her; and as carefully and painlessly as possible, or so it seemed.

She relaxed within his arms, blinked several times to fight back more tears (of relief this time), and softly said, "Thank you . . . sir."

Severus carefully laid her down on the prepared surgical bed and moved away from her to recheck all of his implements one more time. He definitely didn't want to be in mid-debridement on the girl, and then suddenly realize that he needed an unavailable tool.

"You're most welcome, Miss Granger," he softly said to the girl staring at his wide back, almost under his breath.

Turning away from the wounded girl, Severus had briefly allowed a quickly hidden smile to curl up the corners of his lips.

It seemed that Miss Granger must still trust him, at least on some unconscious level.

He could build on that.

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Gristle poured warm water from the kettle she held over her master's hands; thick pus, and bloody, nearly black, slivers of burnt human tissue sloughed off of his sticky red hands as he briskly rubbed them under the clear water.

What ran off his bloody hands into the empty copper collection basin was almost the exact same colour and consistency of his correction ink.

The dark Potions Master was all quiet, precise, concentration. Even an exploding cauldron wouldn't have swayed or disturbed him right now, as he efficiently worked on his witch.

Severus' attention next turned to magickally cleansing the wide exposed patch of bare, bloody, pulsing muscle of her sliced open thigh. He filled the gaping wound with his own version of Muscle Regrowing unguent; packing it full to capacity with the healant.

It never ceased to amaze him; the intricate workings of the human body.

It was a fascinatingly complex machine.

As he watched closely, Severus saw the little fibers of the severed and missing musculature begin renewing, regrowing; all of the barely injured edges knitting quickly, covering, twisting, to join-up with the more slowly repairing of what had formerly been deeply amputated middle muscle tissue.

He poured a healthy dollop of Skin Repairing Solution over a wide patch of gauze lint and covered the wound with it, bandaging it tightly down.

There were many other bleeding wounds left to be treated; some were merely scratches, some were rather deep and were now beginning to become infected themselves.

Severus didn't pause to congratulate himself on what would eventually be proven to be a superior healing of her burnt thigh; he didn't have the time to spare.

There were still her injured ribs to be re-broken and properly set; as well as a bruised lung left to be healed. The Potions Master-cum-healer had less than two hours left before the dose of Dreamless Sleep wore off of the girl.

He renewed his efforts and bent back to his painstakingly minute work.

Severus Snape was determined that, if it were at all possible, his young witch wouldn't bear even a single scar.

END OF CHAPTER 15

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A/A/N: Well, well. Severus certainly had his work "cut out" for him, didn't he? snickers

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	16. Chapter 16

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DISCLAIMER: Not JK. (Is that enough information to still be called an official disclaimer?)

My verbose arse was challenged by an author/friend to do a disclaimer in 6 letters or less. Did I succeed?

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CHAPTER 16: REFLECTIONS

Severus closed the heavy mahogany door behind him and turned the ornate silver key in its lock.

Just to be on the safe side, he also set several complex protective wards in place. Even the Malfoy house elves shared the same Pureblood prejudices as their masters.

Severus Snape meant to protect what was his.

He'd just finished mending his witch, and she needed time to recuperate. The very last thing she needed right now was underhanded elfin magic hindering her healing process or interrupting her exhausted, but much needed, natural slumber.

She'd consumed the maximum dosage of 'Dreamless Sleep Draught' for her size and weight simply to make it comfortably through her surgeries; any more administered just now could prove fatal.

Natural sleep would now be the best possible thing for the young witch anyway.

Severus deeply sighed as he pocketed the key.

Gods, he was so tired! The Potions Master leaned back against the smooth dark wood for a moment, and wearily raised his long-fingered hand and slowly massaged his aching, burning, eyes.

Even though he was exhausted to the bone himself, he still needed to check on his cousin.

Severus began the long trek from his private quarters in the South wing of Malfoy Manor over to the East wing, where he knew Lucius could be found.

The vain blond wizard was now his only known living relative; as such, Severus felt a sense of responsibility towards him now in his time of grief and need.

Besides, it was a sure bet that Lucius would have plenty of liquor on hand right about now.

Severus really wanted a drink of the strongest proofed alcohol currently adorning his cousin's liquor cabinet; actually several drinks would be more technically accurate.

All around this had proved to be a most trying, seemingly never-ending, day for the weary Potions Master.

Aaahh . . . , sweet oblivion! At least for a while.

Severus rolled his neck and shoulders to ease the tired kinks out as he strode faster toward his destination.

Damn! He hadn't realized that he'd been quite so tensed when his spine made several soft 'popping' noises as it suddenly realigned.

Severus took the wide hallway back to his right, where his cousin's private suite was located, then descended the grand staircase down to the main floor of the East wing.

In mere minutes, his rapid, long-legged, strides had him standing outside the third set of doors on his left, those thick, ornate, double-doors that opened directly into Lucius Malfoy's private study.

Severus hadn't even raised his hand to knock yet when his blond cousin called out to him.

"Come in, Severus," came the slurred, muffled, voice from behind the intricately-carved cedar doors that Abraxas Malfoy had commissioned while honeymooning in Italy with his Pureblood bride, the pallidly beautiful, silver-eyed, Marisa Lapaglia.

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Theirs had been an arranged marriage, as was common amongst most Pureblood families.

Miraculously, the marriage had also become one truly of love-at-first-sight when the fifty year old Abraxas Malfoy had lifted his nineteen year old bride's antique lace veil, and brilliant blue eyes had met her amazing silver eyes for the very first time.

That the bride's dowry had greatly increased the wealth of the Malfoy family coffers was an insignificant second to Abraxas, when compared to the wealth of warmth, and love, the silver-eyed Marisa Lapaglia brought to him within her own delicately formed self.

Abraxas Malfoy had successfully remained a rakish bachelor for much longer than most of his acquaintances, including Professor Albus Dumbledore. Abraxas hadn't really thought that wizard would ever marry anyway; he was too . . . attached . . . to his closest friend, Gellert Grindelwald.

Dumbledore should have been honorably ensconced in a contracted marriage for years now, as was the responsibility of a proper Victorian eldest son. Arranged marriages were absolutely the way to go, even for Halfbloods.

It was tradition. It was honorable. It was one's duty to one's family line.

Besides, once the necessary obligations were taken care of, most married couples lived their public lives one way and their private lives quite another entirely.

Witches, by law, had to honor the marriage contracts that their father or guardian had legally arranged for them, no matter what their personal wishes in the matter might be.

His own sister, the beauteous Amarlys Malfoy herself, had been betrothed from her cradle to Edgar Prince, the only son of Septemius Prince; their father Alexander Malfoy's closest friend.

Amarlys didn't have the luxury of slowly falling in love with Edgar Prince, as she'd attended Hogwarts and he'd attended Durmstrang.

Of course, they'd associated all throughout their childhood, as the children of family friends often do, but neither had known what fate they were to share until her eighteenth birthday party.

That night at the stroke of midnight, their fathers, to the shocked surprise of both Amarlys and Edgar, had announced their imminent wedding to the assembled guests.

Soon after, she'd stiffly repeated her binding vows to her barely-known childhood playmate, did her required duty, and spit-out the necessary Prince heir within the first year of their marriage.

Edgar and Amarlys Prince named their only son Ethan. The boy soon became their pride and joy, and drew the couple into such an agreeable familial companionship that a deep and abiding love slowly grew up between them.

Ethan Prince was extraordinarily gifted in the Dark Arts, as were all members of the Prince family. However, it was in potions brewing that the tall-for-his-age, black-eyed and haired, Pureblood Prince truly shone. Thus the young Slytherin became Professor Slughorn's personal pet throughout his years at Hogwarts.

Because of this, a slender handsome lad named Tom Riddle, a fellow Slytherin and classmate, curried both his friendship and favor. They became the closest of friends and confidants, even after they'd both long since graduated and left Hogwarts for the Wizarding World at large.

It had come as somewhat of a shock to Ethan, just as he'd reached his eighteenth birthday, to discover that his beautiful, beloved, mother was unexpectedly pregnant again. The family of three was delighted with the prospect of another child to love and hold.

Edgar and Amarlys had both begun to believe that she was unable to conceive again, after the passage of so many years without her doing so.

Tragically, this last child, a daughter they planned to name Eileen, had come at a heavy price. The loss of her mother's life during her birth.

Neither her father nor her Uncle Abraxas could ever see past that brutal, misfortunate fact. From her very infancy, Eileen Prince was thought of, and treated by both of them, as her mother's murderer.

Her beloved older brother and their old nursery-elf, Gristle, had been her only sources of familial love and compassion during her whole childhood at home.

Small wonder that a love-starved, rather homely, burgeoning seventeen year old witch had succumbed to the very first pretty words and compliments any young man ever paid her during her Seventh year Easter break from school.

It didn't even matter to the agonizingly lonely young witch that the hook-nosed, strapping, young man was only a Muggle. At least it hadn't, until she unexpectedly found herself with child from their first day of April's riverside tryst.

When she'd finally confessed her condition to her suspicious father at Halloween, Eileen unwittingly handed him the opportunity that he'd been waiting seventeen years for on a silver platter.

Edgar Prince renounced both his daughter and her child as members of the Prince family that very night. He immediately cast them out of the only home she'd ever known; quite literally into the teeth of an early winter's storm.

The fate of both mother and child was sealed when she'd knocked on Tobias Snape's door that stormy night in her sheer desperation.

Eileen Prince was hysterical, and soaked to the skin from falling into the river that divided her former world of magic and wizardry from the ignorant-of-the-fact Muggle village just across it.

She was sobbing through chattering teeth, a garble of running-together words that made little sense to the tall young man that opened his front door to her. At least they hadn't; until she'd repeated them slower, over and over.

"I'm pregnant. Oh gods! I'm pregnant! My father has disowned me and cast me out. What do I do now?" she wailed.

He gently pulled the distraught teenaged girl into the tiny sitting room of his rundown, two-up/two-down, red brick rowhouse at the dead-end of the cobbled alleyway of Spinner's End.

Soothing her remorseful tears aside with a tender brush of his work-roughened hand, Tobias Snape tightly pulled Eileen Prince into his arms with a sad, tender, kiss and the promise of immediate marriage.

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The arrival of Lucius' dark cousin had been heralded by the overpowering scent of freshly brewed potions. The rich, herbal, smoky, aroma always preceded Severus by five meters whenever he'd spent any length of time in his laboratory.

It was a comforting scent to Lucius, and had been so ever since their school years together at Hogwarts. He'd earned the Head Boy position in his Seventh year, just as his dark young cousin was beginning his Second year.

For Severus Snape's whole beleaguered First year, Lucius had ignored him as being unworthy of acknowledging as distant family.

To be blunt, ever vain and arrogant, handsome Lucius Malfoy had been embarrassed with Severus' actually being his cousin, and had gone to great lengths to suppress any knowledge of it.

The too-thin, lank-haired, gangly, little boy was only a filthy Halfblood after all, as well as being even poorer than the poorest member of the damned Weasley clan!

Lucius Malfoy had been receiving top marks in potions every year from his Head of Slytherin House, Professor Slughorn. The marks were achieved strictly because of the prestige of his family name and the friendship the Professor shared with his father, Abraxas.

Lucius simply couldn't do the actual brewing no matter how hard he tried. He lacked the necessary patience for potions; his specialty was skillful wandwork and creation of dark spells.

If not for his Ravenclaw girlfriend doing his entire Potions practicals for him up to this point, Lucius Malfoy would have already failed the damned bloody course five years ago.

He'd be required to brew at least one viable potion directly in front of the Auditing Board to pass his NEWT's in order to enter his internship in the Ministry upon his graduation.

Taking credit for the work of another simply wouldn't work in that setting; besides that, the Auditors were a depressingly honest lot, and simply couldn't be bought off.

On his patrols late one night, Head Boy Malfoy had caught young Snape sniveling, and brewing a complicated potion for causing extremely painful long-lasting boils, up in the fifth floor Prefects bathroom.

At least the boy was devious; no one ever used that bathroom as it was rumored to be haunted.

The thin homely lad's left eye had been thoroughly blackened, and his bottom lip was painfully split wide open.

Sirius Black and James Potter had physically jumped the young Slytherin as he'd left the Great Hall, alone, after dinner for walking out with his Gryffindor friend, Lily Evans, earlier in the day.

Severus had hidden a dented old portable cauldron, and the ingredients necessary for the potion, in here weeks ago for 'just in case'. He'd not brewed the potion before tonight because of Lily's urging him not to seek retribution against Black and Potter for all of their cruel pranks against him.

This physical beating of two-on-one had been young Severus Snape's final straw. He endured enough of them from his drunken father at home; he'd be damned if he would tolerate being beaten by his classmates at school.

They both richly deserved whatever he could do to them in return. Besides, if he made the potion time-released, he'd be able to provide himself with any number of incontestable alibis to prevent suspicion from falling on him.

Severus simply hadn't counted on being discovered in mid-brewing by the Head Boy, even if he was a fellow Slytherin. There would certainly be all kinds of hell to pay now, perhaps even his expulsion from Hogwarts!

To his astonishment, Lucius Malfoy not only understood the younger boy's desire for revenge against the two Gryffindor's bullying tactics, he actually approved of it!

Head Boy Malfoy amazingly refused to turn him in on the condition that young Severus would teach him how successfully to brew Veritaserum, late at night here in this bathroom; in private, of course.

Professor Slughorn had slipped Lucius the name of just which potion he'd be required to brew for his NEWT's, and that was to be the one; Veritaserum.

Young Severus Snape had been gobsmacked when Lucius Malfoy had finally admitted his family connection to him during their midnight potions tutorials. Severus had thought that he had no living relatives left in the Wizarding world at all.

In a matter of mere weeks, Lucius Malfoy was brewing quite adequately on his own without anyone's continued help. The second-year Slytherin, Snape, had been an excellent teacher.

Lucius even suggested to the lad that he should make it his career choice.

At least professors were held in esteem and treated with respect. As a Halfblood, the best beginning position his little cousin could rightfully aspire to out in the real world, outside of a school, would be as a shopkeeper's assistant somewhere.

In most employment venues, as in most other areas of daily wizarding life, Blood purity still mattered; regardless of whatever drivel concerning Blood equality the Ministry was currently paying lip-service to.

Just before his graduation, Lucius Malfoy publicly claimed his kinship to young Severus Snape in the crowded Slytherin common room.

Quite a few of the younger brothers and sisters of Lucius' Pureblood cronies soon rushed to befriend the powerful, but terribly lonely, young Snape.

Severus Snape's road to complete acceptance within Slytherin House had just been paved with pure gold, the gold of Lucius Malfoy's acknowledgement and approval of him.

Severus never looked back.

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_Now just how the hell had this all come about? I must have really died when that bitch, Nagini, attacked me. _

_That has to be it. I died, and now I'm in hell._

Severus' dark head lolled over to his right in an almost drunken stupor.

He allowed his spinning head to rest for several long minutes against the cool leather backrest of the tall wingback chair that he was currently occupying, at least until the room quit revolving so.

He cut his black eyes over to where his fair-haired counterpart laid drunkenly weeping and slobbering, facedown, on the expensive black leather sofa.

Severus managed a self-deprecating smirk of a sad grin.

"Ah, Lucius. Quite the pair now aren't we, cousin?" He managed to slur to the other man.

"Gone! All gone, Sev'rus! Can't you see? Don't you know? They're both **gone!"** Lucius rolled over and hoisted himself up, only to weave and bob on his unsteady, liquored, legs. He attempted to straighten his hopelessly stained and wrinkled robes.

A pale shaking hand raked trembling fingers through equally pale, thoroughly knotted, hair as Malfoy unsuccessfully tried to smooth it into some semblance of order.

"I'm going to the Dark Lord. I'll claim to have been a spy. He'll certainly kill me then."

Lucius suddenly looked semi-sober, and stormy grey eyes stared for a long moment of rare sincerity into troubled black eyes, before he continued, "I simply can't survive without my family. You're a stronger man than I am, cousin. You've been alone almost your entire life and managed. **I **don't know **how** to live without my family to support and idolize me."

Severus' turbulent eyes took on a haunted, hollow, look. His cousin hadn't cast any blame on him for being instrumental in Draco's demise.

Lucius Malfoy had been too shocked that his own flesh-and-blood, the son who couldn't even snuff out an already dying old wizard's life, had attempted to take out the Dark Lord himself!

He hadn't needed to accuse or to place any blame.

Severus' own conscience thoroughly scourged his soul each time he remembered any of the many small redeeming things about Draco; he'd truly loved his godson. A part of his mind would forever flagellate itself over that single irreversible deed.

Severus' dark introspection had sobered him up enough to snarl authoritatively, "Do not force me to confiscate your wand . . . or to have to place you under the 'Imperius' for your own good, Lucius!"

"If you think that you're having it bad, just spare a moment of your time to ponder young Miss Weasley's burden. It's been three days now since she lost her **entire** family. She's not eaten, spoken, or even properly attended to her body functions. I had to 'Scourgify' the girl, **twice,** before I'd hold onto her to Apparate her here!"

His nostrils unconsciously quivered in remembrance of the stench that had clung to both of the young Gryffindor witches currently installed under his roof . . . well, technically, Malfoy's roof.

However, it wouldn't be Lucius' possession for much longer if his blond cousin didn't straighten-up.

Actually, the sole reason that Voldemort hadn't already evicted Lucius from Malfoy Manor, and claimed it for his own private residence, was that he'd wanted control of Hogwarts even more.

"Lucius, you are now basically an orphan. A family man without a family." Severus bent forward and rested his elbows on his knees, sitting in an openly confiding manner.

He was speaking from his heart, man-to-man, cousin-to-cousin, and so his deep baritone trembled slightly with rare, but honest, emotion. Severus had to blink and swallow the bitter lump of guilt caused by his contribution to his cousin's loss, no matter how unwittingly.

"Miss Weasley is truly an orphan now." He cleared his throat, and then went on, "She's locked herself away in such a depth of despair that I do not believe that I will be able to reach or mend her."

Severus quirked a sad grin, then bluntly added, "She doesn't trust me."

He self-deprecatingly arched an inky eyebrow at the blond older man, the unspoken 'but who does?' left unsaid, but completely understood between them.

Severus now had Lucius' still intoxicated, but complete, attention.

"Perhaps only one who truly suffers just as she does can reach her. Perhaps neither of you need be alone. She **is** a Pureblood, Lucius, and her blossoming beauty at sixteen holds the promise of becoming an extraordinarily beautiful adult witch. She's bright, loyal, and brave."

Severus paused as he ruefully chuckled to himself, before he candidly added, "A true Gryffindor, and a credit to her House."

"That is something that I will expect you to honor as a confidence, cousin; that I can speak well of a Gryffindor. But then there is that Gryffindor mystique of their supposedly being enthusiastic partners and wildly gifted in bed."

Lucius Malfoy flopped back down on the sofa, apparently deep in thought. He wasn't in the market just yet to fill Narcissa's bed. But . . . perhaps . . . just perhaps a . . . as an . . . advisor?

He'd personally disliked Arthur Weasley for his traitorous Muggle-loving ways, but Lucius was instantly filled with deep sympathy, and empathy, for the man's only daughter's tragic loss and deep grief.

Hot, fresh tears burned his bloodshot grey eyes again for several long minutes before Lucius finally succumbed to the excess of liquor that he'd consumed, and passed out. His house elf, Stubbs, would later come in and levitate his master up to his bed, just as he'd been doing for days now.

Severus hadn't intended for his thoughtless comments to be disrespectful in any way concerning Lucius' loss.

_'In vino est veritas.' _In wine is truth. Sometimes extremely brutal truths.

Buoyed up by alcoholic euphoria, Severus had thoughtlessly been thinking only of his own brand-new Gryffindor sex-toy; the intelligent one. The one that was now completely his own, simply for the taking, and currently asleep in his private quarters just up those stairs.

Severus groaned, and adjusted himself. Damn, he wanted her!

But on the other hand . . .

Severus suddenly decided that a bit of discretion and self-control exercised just now would probably lead to a more pleasurable final victory in his siege of Miss Granger.

He would allow his witch the time to heal. She was wounded, in pain, and in all probability still shell-shocked from everything that had happened to her.

His time would come soon enough. He'd already been waiting seven long years for her, with absolutely no hope of ever having her at all.

He could wait a day or two longer to assume complete possession of his property.

_And then Miss Granger . . . aahh yes . . . then indeed! _

_You will certainly pay then for all of the trouble that I've had to put myself to just to obtain you. _

_Oh yes, my little lioness! You will most definitely __**pay **__your physician._

Severus finally slumped back against the smooth, cool, leather of his chair when Lucius began to drunkenly snore, and closed his tired, burning, eyes.

His thin lips lasciviously arched up at that thought; payment.

Before a heavy inebriated slumber overtook him, Severus Snape allowed himself to begin imagining the multitude of very pleasurable ways in which his Miss Granger would be repaying him nightly for many, **many,** exciting long years to come.

END OF CHAPTER 16

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A/N: We will be leaving our two cousins to "sleep-it-off" for a chapter or two, at least while Hermione heals. As stated in my opening warnings, this is a revolving story format.

Is anyone wondering about Neville, Justin, Harry, and Ginny?

Or about Rodolphus, Bellatrix, and Crabbe, Senior?

I haven't forgotten about any of them. Have you?

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	17. Chapter 17

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A/N: Once again, JK Rowling (and her various publishers) own all that is "Harry Potter and". Moreover, they earn all monies and revenues from its various copyrighted ventures.

Anything you may _think_ that you recognize within this story is only 'borrowed' from Ms Rowling, and will be promptly returned to her (in reasonable condition) when I'm through "playing" with them. _snicker_

I own nothing except my twisted imagination, along with the plot of this story, and earn no money from either. Sadly unfortunate for _**me**_, _sigh, _but completely true.

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AUTHOR'S WARNING: A sexual act between an adult and a minor is insinuated within this chapter, but nothing graphic is actually depicted.

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CHAPTER 17: REFLECTIONS, HERS

Hermione Granger stared in wide-eyed disbelief as Professor Severus Snape slowly rose from his chair at Voldemort's left side, and mockingly sauntered the few steps down from the dais to billow in lazy black circles around her.

She swallowed hard, and her heart began to hammer violently within her aching ribcage.

Derisive sniggers, hateful comments, and outright laughter began to jeer cruelly down upon her from the assembled Inner Circle of Death Eaters, now seated in two long lines extending from either side of the Dark Lord's central, throne-like chair.

Sitting dejectedly on the cold stone floor near each of those elite Death Eater's chairs were many former students, Muggleborns, who she knew from shared classes or the Gryffindor common room. Now, they were obviously the property of the enemy . . . merely war trophies.

Bellatrix Lestrange arched her left foot briskly forward, and kicked Justin Finch-Fletchley in his ribs with a sharply pointed leather clad toe. Her high-heeled black boot knocked the breath out of her new Hufflepuff toy with a "whoosh" of instant prostration.

Bella giggled madly, and then licked her full garnet lips in greedy anticipation. She possessively rested her booted, crossed ankles across Justin's broad back, and used his prone body as her footstool.

Bellatrix turned her attention back to the festivities. Little flames of self-satisfaction, and giddy anticipation, danced in wicked delight within her glittering dark eyes at this latest turn of events in Hermione Granger's life.

She understood the 'special' imprecations of this particular Mudblood's new 'circumstances' better than any other witch present.

Years earlier, when Bellatrix Lestrange had still been completely sane and quite beautiful, she had once fucked Severus Snape to relieve him of the burden of his virginity . . . although it had only happened because the Dark Lord had ordered her to do so.

It occurred at the very first Dark Revel that Severus had ever attended, when he'd been an awkward, hormonally unrelieved, lonely, fifteen-year-old friend and Slytherin classmate of her younger brother-in-law, Rabastan Lestrange.

Lucius Malfoy was throwing a party to celebrate his induction into Death Eater society. He invited his younger cousin, Severus to attend that as well as the Revel to follow, just as Lord Voldemort had ordered.

The Dark Lord was interested in the brilliantly talented, dark Half-blood Prince, and this was but the first step in seducing him into His service.

Bellatrix had nearly scrubbed herself raw, afterwards, attempting to wash the homely, greasy, gangly teenager from her; however, even as a virgin schoolboy, Severus Snape made a lasting impression upon Bella.

The tall-for-his-age dark-haired, dark-eyed boy, who had grown up to later become the surly Potions Master of Hogwarts, was rivaled only by her Master in the size of his cock as well as his stamina in the sexual arena. His cock should rip the snooty little Mudblood asunder!

Bella was cackling madly at her surprisingly fond, crystal-clear, memory of the never-repeated carnal deed. She wiped a tear of laughter from the corner of one eye with a black-lace gloved hand, as she struggled to calm herself and regain control over her madness, before it offended the Master.

Hermione Granger was abruptly certain that her fate couldn't possibly be good, not if Bellatrix Lestrange was looking forward to what was about to happen to her! She anxiously met her former Professor's glittering onyx stare, like a wounded wild animal hopelessly trapped in a hunter's snare.

_'Merciful Merlin!'_ she thought. _'I'd always thought his eyes were so cold! They're certainly not cold now. Well . . . maybe coldly calculating, but the Professor has never looked at me like THIS before. Why is he looking at me like . . . like . . . a choice morsel on his dinner plate? Is that . . . could that be . . . lust? Oh gods! Oh gods, oh NO!'_

Then she'd heard his voice, that lovely deep baritone, the one that her ignorant schoolgirl-self had once fantasized about, spewing out the horrible, mocking, hurtful words:

"Thank you, my Lord, for your most generous gift. She is indeed a worthy prize, and I look forward to . . . mastering her," he'd said, obviously referring to her, as he politely thanked the monstrosity that was Lord Voldemort, for giving her to him.

Hermione's brown eyes widened almost to the size of saucers, and she felt her stiff lips form a silent 'O' of pure outrage. She was NO ONE's property!

The Professor scornfully laughed down at her, as he drank in her disbelieving expression; then he focused once more on Voldemort, and smoothly drawled, "After all, my Lord, all Mudblood witches are the same in the dark. Suitable cumbuckets, all."

Snape's only change of expression was a jubilant, leering, smirk of his thin lips focused down on the battered, kneeling, young Gryffindor witch staring gobsmacked up at him.

Voldemort threw back his slick reptilian head and roared with laughter . . . whether at Snape's words, her expression or, most probably, some warped combination of both, Hermione Granger hadn't a clue!

Her open-mouthed, disbelieving, shock at that hateful slur, rolling so easily off the Professor's tongue, brought even more raucous laughter and jeers from the assembled Death Eaters watching the drama playing out before them.

His eyes, those savagely beautiful, gloating, sin-black eyes, fiercely bored into hers for a long, intense, moment, as if he was somehow trying to communicate wordlessly with her.

Snape suddenly grabbed her right arm and jerked Hermione up against his leanly muscled, hard body. She felt an unexpected surge of immense, magical power wash throughout her entire being, as she was held so crushingly tight against his tall frame. Before Hermione could even react, those twisted, smirking lips crashed down upon her own bleeding mouth, and mysteriously stopped Time.

The enormous power of the magical bond that he had somehow forged between them, seemingly with a mere kiss, simply took her breath away!

Hermione had always assumed that Professor Snape would be just as cold as the austere, touch-me-not aura that he always projected. She'd been so very wrong about that! Severus Snape, the man, wasn't cold at all.

_Sweet Merlin! _He **BURNED!**

Oh gods! The intense passion that Hermione felt raging deeply within this dark, difficult, man, as he held her so intimately close against his lean, unyielding body, seemed to sear its way into her very soul with that Kiss!

That unexpected, volatile, mind-blowing Kiss . . . that tasted richly of sugary vanilla, some kind of light sweet wine, and the thick coppery-tang of blood. Her own blood . . . from her split, bleeding, bottom lip.

Dear gods! Her Professor had _kissed_ her!

Her whole concept of the world suddenly surrealistically twisted sideways, like a Dali painting, beneath the fiery pressure of that amazing Kiss, while she'd been so fervently clasped in the circle of his tensed, powerful, arms.

Hermione hadn't even felt him performing the Side-Along Apparation from the Great Hall, to wherever this was that they'd ended up!

It was as if Time, itself, had somehow become 'unstuck' in that endless, infinite, moment of their mingled kiss. As if they'd slipped into a sort of "Timelessness", where absolutely nothing else existed for either of them, beyond the circle of _'Them'_ . . . consisting only of their conjoined lips and intertwined bodies.

The only reality Hermione knew, in that endless, awesome, Moment was the deep wealth of possessive desire burning so whitehotly within her Professor's firm lips, as well as his tautly controlled, unbelievably well-fitting body now moulded so wondrously tight and warm against her own, like the perfect dance partner.

Just as quickly as Professor Snape had grabbed her, he released Hermione the instant she came to her senses. She'd finally become aware enough of the Present to begin fiercely struggling against being violated, of being taken in some kind of weird orgiastic rite, right there in the Great Hall in front of Voldemort and his pack of elite Death Eaters.

Hermione had been amazed when she'd opened her eyes and discovered to her surprise that, instead of still being within the Great Hall of Hogwarts, they were now standing in what seemed to be the Professor's private library. The Professor then shocked her further, when he drawled out, "Strip off your clothes, Miss Granger."

Then the edges of that reality shifted, as it blurred again, and Hermione felt herself unexpectedly falling! Falling down, down, down, spiraling rapidly toward the hard ground below, just as if she had fallen off a broom, from somewhere high above the Quidditch pitch.

She jerked upright in the bed, and screamed herself awake, just before hitting the ground. A cool rush of relief washed over Hermione; it had simply been a bad dream!

Thank Merlin! She'd only been having a nightmare. Rather, Hermione _had_ been relieved, but that relief was short-lived as her fear-alert dark amber eyes rapidly took in the bright morning sunshine streaming in the large windows, illuminating her present surroundings.

Her many bandaged, freshly healed cuts and bruises had twitched against their soft padding, reminding her of their presence, with her precipitous awakening from where she'd been sleeping in what proved to be a strange bed.

The full-force of her current situation came crashing back down upon her, as the horrific realization of her predicament suddenly overwhelmed her.

Dear gods! It was true! It hadn't all simply been some terrible nightmare; they actually had lost the battle to Voldemort. She really _was_ now the personal property of her former Professor, his slave for the taking . . . whenever he so desired.

Sweet Merlin! What was she supposed to do?

Hermione attempted to lick her fear-dry lips with a tongue-tip that was equally parched. She managed, with some difficulty, to croak out the single word, "Water."

Gristle, the wizened little house elf that Hermione remembered from last night, instantly popped in bearing a silver tray that contained a crystal pitcher of cold water and a tumbler, along with several bottles, pots, and vials of various potions and unguents.

"Gristle sees that Missy has waked now," Gristle said. "Master said Gristle is to tend to Missy's needs this morning, as long as Missy is 'greeble."

The little house elf stared into Hermione's brown eyes with its too-large blue eyes for a long moment, after setting the heavy tray down on a nearby bed table. "Is Missy 'greeble this morning to having Gristle attending her?" she curiously asked, as she poured a glass of cold water and passed it to Hermione.

"If the Professor wishes it, then yes, I am agreeable. After all, I am now just as much a slave as you are, and have to obey him also," was Hermione's bitter reply, once she'd had taken several long swallows of water.

Gristle fiercely shook her fuzzy head in the negative, and retorted, "Master is wrong for once, then. Missy is not so know-it-all, as Master said she is! Master has taken great care with the Missy; why does Missy believe these wicked things of my Master?"

Hermione was taken aback by Gristle's simple question. Exactly why _did_ she believe that the Professor meant her any harm? She let her right hand drift up to tentatively touch the thick gauze pad that she felt stuck to her left cheek; it refused to lift away. Some form of secure Sticking Charm must hold it in place.

Her left hand slid down to gently stroke the nearly quarter-of-a-meter-long gauze bandage, now covering where she'd been so badly burnt over almost the whole of her left thigh. It was barely even tender any longer; obviously, the Professor had been truthful about healing her, and she hadn't felt a single twinge of pain as he'd done so . . . just as he'd promised!

Ever practical, Hermione made her first 'agreeable' request of the day to Gristle, "I need to use the loo. And I'd like to take a bath and shampoo my hair, if it's permissible with your Master."

Gristle bowed her fuzzy head and answered, "If Missy will follow, Gristle will show her the faculties." The little house elf said it in such a respectful, 'superior-servant' tone, with her broad elfin face tilted just-so, that Hermione couldn't find it within her heart to correct the house elf's misspoken word, even as she struggled not to laugh at it.

The Professor must refer to the loo as the 'facilities', and his house elf copied his word-choice. Still, Hermione couldn't repress her small smile at this tiny glimmer into the 'private' life of the dark wizard who was now her master.

Word-choice often gave glimpses into a person's personality, Freudian slips, as it were. This simple choice told Hermione that the Professor must be an old-fashioned gentleman, and a bit 'formal' in his form of address, as compared to the slang used by all of her former classmates and teenaged acquaintances.

That wasn't really news to Hermione. She'd already surmised as much from observing him for years in his classrooms; his unyieldingly perfect posture, his precise manner of teaching, as well as those rather somber, stuffy, black Edwardian suits that he preferred.

Hermione's mind came full-circle, thinking about how she'd once fantasized about unbuttoning all of those tiny, imprisoning, buttons on that black frock coat, and running her hands over his shirted chest. Thinking about the Professor's clothing, she looked down at her own nudity, and wondered where her clothes were.

"Where are my things? My clothes?" Hermione demanded of the house elf who was standing by, waiting for the Missy to rise and follow her.

Gristle sniffed, copying her Master's disdainful expression as nearly as a house elf could hope to ever achieve, as she replied, "The Master ordered Gristle to 'Burn those reeking, wretched, articles. I will not tolerate their stench in my rooms for another second'. Burn them t'was Gristle ordered. Burn them Gristle did."

Hermione rocked back-and-forth a moment, trying to control her bladder. Damn it, nothing for it except to 'go'. Nude, if necessary!

She jerked the sheet that she'd been clutching to her breasts free from the tuck at the foot of the bed, and wrapped it loosely around her. "The facilities, NOW!"

Gristle jumped to obey, and rapidly moved to a door to the right of the bed that Hermione hadn't noticed. Not that she'd had the time, yet, to notice anything about her surroundings except the quality of the Egyptian cotton sheets and softness of the thick mattress she'd slept on.

A marvelously decadent 'facility' it was indeed! It held a separate small room for the water closet, a long dressing table that held an alabaster hand sink with ornate gold taps, and a marble tub, large enough to comfortably hold two, sunken into the stone floor tiles. There was even a small fireplace to remove the chill from the permanently-cold stone fixtures.

She'd never have pictured Professor Snape as having such positively baroque taste in his furnishings, or the financial resources that a bathroom like this must have cost. She had thought his taste would have been positively spartan!

What else _didn't_ she know about the man who now was her Master?

Mercifully, Gristle 'popped' out while Hermione took care of her most pressing issue within the water closet. She'd just finished, flushed, and was washing her hands when the house elf reappeared, holding a sealed letter in her little gnarled hand.

"Tis for you, Missy," Gristle said as she thrust it out to Hermione.

Hermione calmly dried her hands on a nearby towel, and took the proffered missive. She studied the wax seal for a moment. The wax was blood red, just like the Professor's correction ink, and the stamped image upon it consisted of twin serpents twisting into double S's; his initials.

She broke the seal and began to read the hastily scrawled, spidery script. Hermione instantly recognized the handwriting on the letter; she had seen it splashed in blood-red corrections all across her essay parchments she'd written in her classes every year for the Professor.

It seemed rather strange to Hermione to be reading an actual letter from her Professor, addressed to _her, _worded in simple conversation, and written in expensive black India ink, instead of the great bloody swathes of corrections splashed all across her hard work.

The letter read:

Miss Granger,

I apologize for my absence this morning. I trust your injuries are much improved, and that you are feeling better today.

Gristle has instructions to provide you with anything you need, within reason . . . the exceptions being the use of a wand, or aiding you to escape.

She has also inquired about your bathing. It is permissible, as long as you reapply the healing unguent to your thigh afterwards.

She can remove your bandages, and will assist you in these things as my emissary. I should return in time to escort you for down for dinner.

Dinner is served promptly at seven. Our host is a stickler for proper manner and dress.

Semi-formal, if you'd oblige me.

Until then,

Professor Severus R. Snape

Hermione curled her fist up, crumpling the letter into a ball. She stalked out of the bathroom, clutching the slipping sheet more tightly against her breasts, and sat back down on the edge of the bed with a perturbed 'flop'.

After Hermione calmed herself with a few deep breaths, she smoothed the wrinkles from the letter, and re-read it once more . . . slowly.

Gristle hesitantly followed Hermione back into the bedchamber. "Missy is angry that my Master will not be with her today?" she cautiously questioned the obviously miffed young witch.

Hermione sighed in pure exasperation. "No! I'm glad the Professor isn't here this morning. I really wouldn't trust myself to keep from shouting at him. MEN!" she fumed aloud. "Semi-formal dinner attire, if you please! And the great git left me here NAKED! I wonder if a bed sheet sarong would be considered semi-formal enough for a host who is a stickler for proper etiquette, as the 'Master' left me with nothing else to wear?"

Gristle tipped her greying fuzzy head to one side, and stared at Hermione as she ranted, a smile ever widening across her broad elfin face. "Aaaaahh! If Missy wishes it so, Gristle can fetch Missy clothes," she smugly answered. "Clothes for Missy is not like clothes for house elves! Many clothes are they to pick from in the attics, many very beautiful clothes. Yes, yes! Gristle can see beautiful clothes on Missy right now. Master will be most proud of the beautiful Missy."

Hermione promptly snapped her mouth shut, re-opening and re-shutting it several times, each time to prevent herself from 'venting' a select few of the impressive curse words she'd learnt from George and Fred Weasley, as the twins had 'colourfully' cheered for Gryffindor and 'rudely' booed all opposing teams during Quidditch matches.

Her present situation wasn't Gristle's fault, after all. Perhaps, just perhaps, she could subvert the house elf toward her favour, later, by being friendly and agreeable now.

Finally, Hermione managed a rather stilted, "Yes. That would be just lovely. Thank you, Gristle. The first thing I'd like is some breakfast, and then a long, hot bath, if you'll unstick my bandages for me please. I would appreciate anything that you can do to possibly supply me with suitable clothing, until I can discuss the subject further with the Professor later tonight."

There. That was as "greeble" as Hermione Granger felt like being just now; trying to force anything more polite out of her mouth would surely crack her teeth, so tightly were her jaws clenched. Her words must have been adequate, however, as Gristle bobbed her large, fuzzy head in acquiescence and popped out, presumably to fetch her some food.

Hermione began to tap one foot impatiently against the thick oriental carpet beneath it, as she fumed and glared around the luxuriously furnished bedchamber she currently occupied.

She thought, to her disgust, that Lavender Brown would have positively loved this room; all white and pink and gold, too richly furnished, almost gaudy in its frills and frou-frous. It was an altogether a fitting room for a bordello . . . or a whore!

Hermione Granger loathed Lavender Brown's taste in everything, except for her taste in the boyfriend that she'd tried to steal from Hermione last year.

Lavender Brown probably would've also _loved _being the 'bed warmer' of such a powerful, elite member of the New Wizarding World Order as the Professor!

Snape's bed warmer, HAH!

If the Professor thought to keep _her _sequestered within this gilded prison cell twenty-four hours per day, _NAKED, _as if locked away awaiting the servicing of his Pleasure, then he'd best provide her with her _own _personal library, or some other useful occupation for her hands and mind.

Something Else to do, besides throwing and breaking the chamber's expensive bric-a-brac, as her current temper urged her to do, that is.

Otherwise, Professor Severus R. Snape would most certainly find Miss Hermione J. Granger's bed a decidedly chilly place to visit.

A positively . . . arctic . . . experience for _him,_ with _her_ as his 'bed warmer' indeed!

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(Earlier the same morning, at Hogwarts)

Scratch sat curled in a mournful huddle in the darkened corner of the Dark Lord's bathroom near Luna's open Dower Chest.

His Mistress was in a bad way. Huge tears slowly trickled down his ancient elfin cheeks, gathering in his deep wrinkles, before dripping off his pointed, warty, chin.

Scratch had already been old when his Mistress' father had been born. That was almost a century ago, and right now Scratch felt every single one of his nearly seven hundred years weighing him down. He ached for his beloved Mistress, and longed to take all of her injuries and pain away for her.

Scratch understood that the Mating must happen between witches and wizards. Mating was needed for making babies. But _never_ before had any of the Lovegood witches been so very injured while mating with a wizard! This couldn't be right . . . could it?

Until Luna talked to him about it, there was little that Scratch could do for his Mistress, other than pass her more of the healing things from her Dower Chest.

He leapt to obey, as she called for the next potion from her reclined position in the large soaking tub. Luna's muffled sobs and agonized groans of pain tore at her house elf's ancient heart, as she struggled to heal herself and to make as little noise as possible while she did so.

Scratch was at a complete loss as to how to help his traumatized Mistress. He cut his tear-filled yellow eyes toward the bathroom door, as he seriously pondered if he dared to slip out and kill He-Who-Had-Done-This-To-His-Mistress while He still slept.

Only his fear that he might fail to kill Him thoroughly enough stopped Scratch from putting action to his thought. He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named was terribly difficult to kill, fully!

If Scratch failed, and if HE survived yet again, his Mistress would surely pay the price for his unsuccessful attempt.

Scratch snivelled, wiped his tears and elf-snot off onto his wrinkled arm, and then returned to his dark corner, to quietly await Luna's next order.

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As dawn's first gloaming trickled into Voldemort's bedchamber window, Luna stifled a groan of pain and slowly eased herself out of his sleeping embrace. Her husband had cast a 'Scourgify' over both of them, as well as her ruined white silk sheets, before he'd pulled Luna tightly against his side and shut his satisfied ruby eyes.

His spell had worked to remove the bloody evidence of their nuptial consummation, and Voldemort had fallen into a deep, exhausted, fully sated slumber.

Unfortunately, it hadn't prevented a fresh accumulation of blood from renewing itself in a thick puddle beneath Luna's bum from the internal injuries their fierce coupling had left the petite young witch with.

As she struggled to crawl to the edge of the bed, without waking her husband and possibly having to endure a repeat performance of the night before, Luna left a long, wide, crimson smear across her half of the bed.

She had to lie there, exhausted, panting from the pain, and tightly clutching the edge of the wide bed for a few minutes before she could attempt to swing her feet off onto the carpet.

Sweet gods! Could one's intestines fall out of one's private place after having sex for the first time?

At that moment, it seemed a highly likely possibility to Luna, formerly Lovegood, now Lady Voldemort. She made a valiant attempt to raise herself up; it was unsuccessful, so she simply rolled off the bed, and landed face down onto the thick oriental carpet covering that space of cold flagstone floor beside Voldemort's massive bed.

For the very life of her, Luna couldn't summon the strength to do more than crawl towards the bathroom, painting a trickling trail of crimson bloodstains as she inched along. It became a grim mission to Luna: simply to make it into the bathroom, for safety and healing, without disturbing her husband's sleep.

She'd scoot half a body-length, then she'd lay her head down against the cool flagstone, to rest and regain her breath for a long moment; each forward pull of her bruised, ripped and battered body sending fresh shockwaves of pain radiating throughout her injured being.

It seemed to Luna that it took her an hour to finally reach the bathroom door. She managed to raise herself up onto her knees, pulling herself up by using the doorframe for support, and twisted the knob open before falling down again.

However, this time when Luna went down, she landed in Scratch's outstretched, loving arms. He pulled his Mistress into whatever thin veneer of safety his gnarled arms provided, dragged her injured body the rest of the way into the bathroom with him, and quietly shut the door behind them.

Thank the gods for house elves!

End of Chapter 17

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A/A/N: I apologize for the length of time it has taken me to complete Chapter 17, and hope that you have enjoyed reading it . . . now that it has finally been posted.

If you remember from a couple of months ago, I told you that I was re-posting this story on an Adults Only site, as I am troubled with knowing that Minors are reading the very Mature Content of "Refuge".

I discovered (thankfully in time to "edit" my LL/LV lemon chapter for here) that simply rating my story as "M" wasn't preventing children as young as twelve-years-old from reading it here on this site. (Don't ask me where their parents are, because I haven't a clue!)

If the parents or site will not address what is "put-out-there" for the consumption of Underage Readers then, as the author of this story, I feel that I must take the responsibility to 'edit' the "racier" bits of my original version of "Refuge" out prior to posting it on a site without any age restrictions.

I thank each of my readers for your continued support and understanding of my sense of accountability toward the Minors who are reading this story right along with you adults, here on .

If you are over the age of 18, and wish to read the fully beta-d, unabridged, uncensored version of this story . . . the way I originally envisioned it, before making so many, many cuts and edits for this open-age site, then I invite you to re-read it on AdultFanFiction, the Adults ONLY, age-monitored FanFiction site.

The title has been abbreviated to "Refuge Has Its Price" and it is listed in the Harry Potter heterosexual category, SS/HG subdomain, on AFF. I think you will find it well worth your effort to give it a re-read there; hopefully, the more explicit details there will "fill-in" the gaps missing from the story for you.

Thank you for your time, understanding, and continued reading and reviewing of "Refuge". I simply want to make this the best story possible for everyone reading on both sites.

Most sincerely,

Victoria Prince, author

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